#Please… I need some release… some catharsis

[theres-whump-in-that-nebula]

My guilty pleasure is watching a compilation of every single Onision temper tantrum in order and fact-checking him, psychoanalyzing him, roasting him, and telling him to kill himself through the screen

[aleksatia]

🍎 Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Caleb.

Inspiration hit me going 100mph down the highway, and I took an unscheduled gas station stop just to write this down. My husband almost divorced me again thinking I’d lost my mind — so in a way, this series is dedicated to him. And to second chances. I know they exist. I’ve lived one. 🥀

An unplanned new series. Five ex-husbands. Same setup, different reactions.

❄️ Zayne | 🎨 Rafayel | ✨Xavier | 🏍 Sylus

Cut Scene (NSFW): 🍎 Caleb – The Tea, the Rice, and Everything Between

CW/TW: emotional trauma, post-divorce grief, unresolved intimacy, mutual guilt and blame, AI-simulated memory confrontation, violent emotional release, destructive conflict, references to emotional manipulation and psychological burnout, gameified use of weapons, simulated car crash, coarse language, heavy emotional dialogue, themes of self-sabotage, intimacy tangled with pain, and lingering affection that hurts to hold. Please read with care.

Pairing: Caleb x ex-wife!you Genre: Emotional combat dressed as therapy. Post-divorce catharsis through orchestrated destruction. Rage as ritual, memory as minefield. Estranged soulmates, bruised devotion, unsaid things turned weapon. Slow-burn devastation with soft hands and steel teeth. Summary: You didn’t sign up for closure. You signed up to break things. But when your blind date turns out to be Caleb — your ex-husband, your gravity, your sharpest regret — the rooms stop being symbolic. Each one strips you down, forces you closer, until rage gives way to honesty, control to collapse. And underneath it all, he’s still the man who would never let you fall… but might be the reason you broke in the first place. Word Count: 7.1K AN: For some reason, the one I write last always ends up being twice as long as the one I write first — which is why I constantly rotate the order. Out of five men, five parts, this one came last… and, predictably, got out of hand. I'll be honest — this turned out painful. At least for me. And cruel, in places. But it felt honest. Maybe a little OOC at times, but let’s be real — divorce changes people. And now I need to recover from this one. Probably for longer than I want to admit.

Almost a year after the divorce, something inside you had been fermenting. 

Not relief, not the lightness of a woman unshackled, but something bitter and unholy. The kind of pain that doesn’t dissolve, but calcifies. It grew claws. Grew teeth. Turned your bloodstream into gasoline. You tried everything: the silence of mountains, the thrill of anonymous sex, the rhythm of violence in a boxing ring. None of it was enough. The hunts were no longer satisfying. The catharsis, too fleeting. You needed something that could bleed when you hit it.

So when the ad appeared — BLIND DATE: DESTRUCTION EDITION. To escape, you must destroy — you signed up without thinking twice. Rage has never been your enemy. Indecision is.

You dressed for war. Tight leather pants that clung like a second skin. Laced boots with soles heavy enough to leave imprints. A button-down shirt under a corset not meant to seduce, but to shield. Your hair pulled into a high, severe ponytail. Drama layered like armor.

This wasn’t a date. It was a reckoning.

You arrived five minutes early. You always do. The place was a former warehouse, rebranded into a rage room with curated destruction experiences — urban apocalypse meets sad girl therapy. The hostess gave you a waiver and a smirk. “He’s already here,” she said. “In Room B.” 

You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t want to know. You wanted to feel your heartbeat in your teeth.

You walked in, pulling on the thick gloves, then sliding the protective goggles into place. The world dimmed slightly through the tinted lenses, sharpening at the edges. Everything suddenly looked a little more dangerous. A little more true.

The door hissed shut behind you, and the lock clicked with a finality that was almost erotic. One way in. No way out but through — through brick, through rage, through whatever poor bastard was foolish enough to stand in your way.

Your hand found the sledgehammer without looking, fingers curling around its weight like it was made for you. Heavy. Grounding. Righteous. You gave it a test swing, then another, calibrating impact, imagining bone. You didn’t even glance at him. 

Whoever he was, he’d get the same treatment as the wall.

Until he spoke.

“Well,” the voice cut through the air like a cracked knuckle, dry and dark, “you still choose the biggest weapon in the room. Some things never change, pip-squeak.”

You turned. Fast. The hammer arced through the space between you, too close. He ducked. The wall behind him caught the edge, chipped hard enough to spray red dust into the air.

“Say that again,” you warned, low and flat, “and I swear I’ll aim for the nose next time.”

He straightened slowly, expression unreadable except for the barely-contained fire in his eyes. 

“Touchy,” he muttered. “All righty. Retiring that one. Let’s see... viperette? Still small. Still mean. But I respect the venom upgrade.”

Caleb.

Of course it was Caleb.

The universe had a sense of humor. A cruel one.

He looked like war in a t-shirt. Leaner, somehow, like rage had eaten away the softness around his edges. His jaw was tight, eyes dark and alert, like he’d been living off caffeine and unfinished sentences. He held a crowbar like it was an extension of his spine — ready to break, to pry, to rip something apart.

You didn’t say his name. You didn’t give the moment that kind of power.

“Jesus,” he muttered, eyeing the setup. “A brick wall. Real subtle. What, are we supposed to talk about our feelings while we chip away at the trauma?”

You didn’t dignify that with a reply—at least not right away. Then, dryly: “I think we’re supposed to break shit. Bonus points if we don’t murder each other.”

He barked a short, mirthless laugh. “Blind date with a bat and unresolved issues. Sounds like your kind of night.”

“You’re projecting. I didn’t come here to reminisce, Caleb. I came here to destroy.”

“Great. Start with the wall.”

You planted your feet, drew back, and slammed the hammer into the bricks. The jolt surged through you like an exorcism. Caleb followed suit, striking beside your dent with a calculated precision that annoyed you more than it should’ve.

You worked without speaking. The cracks formed slowly, reluctantly, like even the damn wall didn’t believe you two could work together. You hated how easily your rhythms aligned. Always had. Even when you fought, you were fluent in each other’s movement.

He paused, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “So. Tell me, did you know it was gonna be me?”

“If I had, I’d have brought a bigger hammer.”

“And here I thought you might’ve missed me.”

You turned your head, just enough to let him see your smile — sharp, unapologetic. “I did. Like you miss a bullet you didn’t dodge.”

That shut him up.

For now.

The wall finally began to give.

Cracks widened, deepened, split like veins across the surface. Your breath came hard, sharp in your throat. You were sweating, but the hammer felt lighter now, almost like it wanted more.

Another hit. Another. Then —

Caleb dropped his crowbar with a clatter, stepped in close, too close. You tightened your grip, not sure if he was about to yell, shove, or kiss you.

He didn’t do any of those things.

Instead, he reached out and gripped your upper arm — not rough, but firm, like a man redirecting fate — and pulled you a half step back. The wall loomed beside you like a dying animal. You opened your mouth to protest, but stopped when you saw his face.

He was looking at you like he was memorizing the end of the world. That same gaze he used to have when he thought you were asleep and he was letting himself be weak for ten seconds. It cut deeper now.

You didn’t blink. Neither did he.

Then, without a word, he turned, drew back, and drove the full weight of his body into one final strike.

The hammer met the weak spot with a sound that rang like a gunshot. Dust exploded into the air. He kicked the base of the wall hard — his boot landing with perfect force, perfect timing — and the whole thing collapsed in the opposite direction, away from you, bricks falling like dominos, like judgment, like the years between you had meant nothing and everything at once.

Silence.

Then you exhaled.

And said, flatly, “You always did know how to make a point. Real subtle, Colonel.”

His jaw twitched. That was all. No quip this time, no grin. Just the tight strain in his neck and a flicker behind his eyes like something was about to unhinge. But it didn’t. Of course it didn’t. That was the whole game with you two — feeling everything and showing nothing until the room caught fire.

You stepped through the rubble.

The next chamber was colder. Darker. The hum of old OLED screens filled the air like flies buzzing near a carcass. Dozens of them, mounted along the curved walls in perfect symmetry. Some flickering, some bright, all showing the same kind of sickening reel. Success. Smiles. Promotions. Affection posed for the camera, curated happiness. Couples at sunset, at brunch, in bed. Running on a beach, golden and effortless.

Then the altar.

A bride. A groom. A goddamn soft-focus lens.

You stopped cold.

The hammer slipped from your hand. You bent slowly, picked up a chunk of broken brick from the ruins behind you — rough, warm, red with the breath of your anger — and flung it.

The screen shattered on impact. A flicker. Sparks. A frozen image of a kiss, fractured into spider veins of glass.

Caleb didn’t move. Not really. Just stood there, staring at the wall of curated lies. His eyes darted from screen to screen, like he was trying to catch something in the movement. Like he was afraid he’d see something too real.

You hurled another brick.

The screen cracked with a dull, satisfying sound, collapsing inward like it had flinched.

“Would’ve been more poetic if they used our photos,” he said, dryly, like his throat was sand.

You scoffed. “Should’ve offered the organizers access to our digital album, I guess. Too bad I wiped every trace of you from the cloud last October.”

That got him.

His lip curled upward — half a smirk, half a snarl. “Of course you did. Practical. Cold. Classic you.”

You turned slowly, blood surging behind your ears. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He didn’t step back. Caleb never did. “I didn’t delete anything,” he said, voice low. “Renamed the album. Filed it under ‘Bitch I Used to Love’ Thought it was honest.”

You could’ve scratched the skin off his face with how fast your hands moved if not for the gloves and the goggles between you. You were on him in a second, eyes locked, breath ragged, but neither of you made contact. Not yet. The air between you hissed with the threat of combustion.

“You’re such a fu—”

The voice cut in. Not his. Not yours.

From the screen behind you, a woman's face smiled, unbearably bright, like a toothpaste ad with delusions of sincerity. “You can always count on me,” she said.

Your breath stopped.

That phrase. His phrase.

Before you could move, Caleb did.

He crossed the room in two strides and brought the bat down like wrath. The screen split open with a flash of white light and a guttural sound that wasn’t quite human. A scream, maybe. Or something deeper.

He didn’t say anything after that. And neither did you.

Not in words.

But your body answered. Loudly.

You tore through the room like it had insulted you personally. Which, in a way, it had. Those grinning avatars of happiness, the sterile intimacy of picture-perfect couples — people who hadn’t known the feeling of being swallowed alive by someone they trusted. Smug joy laminated in pixels. They deserved everything you gave them.

You brought the bat down on one screen, then another. Glass shattered in bursts. Sparks flew like ash from a controlled burn. Across the room, Caleb mirrored you, attacking from the opposite side — controlled, brutal, rhythmic. Again, you were in sync. Not lovers. Not enemies. Just two wild animals with matching scars, dismantling a cathedral of lies.

And then you met in the middle.

The largest screen loomed between you, mounted above a faux-marble pedestal like some grotesque altar. You swung. Hard. The bat ricocheted off the screen like it had hit bone. 

It didn’t crack. It laughed. A sharp recoil shot up your arm.

You let out a guttural sound — somewhere between a curse and a grow l— and dropped the bat.

Then picked up a brick.

It was still warm from the earlier wall, one edge sharp enough to draw blood if it wanted to. You didn’t give it the chance. You took it to the screen, again and again, raw and breathless, something primal and unrepentant bleeding out through your hands. Each strike carved into the polished surface like you were trying to murder memory itself.

Caleb didn’t stop you. He just stood to the side, watching the destruction like it was sacred.

When the screen finally gave in, it did so all at once. Glass caved with a scream of surrender, wires snapped, the frame buckled and collapsed in on itself. Behind it: a door. Dark, narrow, humming softly.

You stood still, shoulders heaving. Your fingers clenched tighter around the brick, so tight the rough edges pressed through the gloves and left grooves in your skin beneath. You swallowed hard, once, choking back something feral and ho t— not quite tears, but close enough to shame you.

Then, without looking, you turned and hurled the brick in the opposite direction. Just to hear it hit. Just to remind yourself you still could.

Caleb took a step toward you. Careful. Something in his face had changed — softened, almost. His mouth twitched like he was about to ask the one question no one in their right mind should ask.

Are you okay?

No. You were not okay. You were on fire inside a collapsing structure and the only thing holding you together was inertia.

“Touch me,” you warned, voice like cut wire, “and I swear I’ll hit harder than I did that screen.”

And with that, you walked forward. Toward whatever hell came next.

The room ahead was cleaner. Cold lighting. Metallic walls with thin veins of circuitry pulsing like capillaries beneath glass. At the center stood a sleek black pedestal, and on it: two shotguns. Game-style, not military, but still heavy, still real enough in your hands to feel the familiar pull of power in the barrel. Your palms flexed on instinct.

You grabbed one without hesitation. Caleb followed suit.

Above, a voice crackled — genderless, modulated. Artificial.

“Welcome to Trigger Point. Please attach neural sensors to your temples. Each player must input ten phrases associated with emotional distress. The AI will cross-reference the data, generate projected constructs, and render them in combat form. Destroy on sight. Objective: release. Completion time: variable.”

You stared at the interactive screen blinking in front of you. A small keyboard. Ten empty fields. The implication clear: name your demons. Feed them in. And then shoot them down.

Caleb started typing immediately. No hesitation. His fingers flew. He was always better at anger. At naming what hurt. You wondered if he’d been waiting for a moment like this.

You stared at your own screen, unmoving. The cursor blinked at you. Accusatory. You hated this part. Not the shooting. The naming.

Because naming made it real.

But you typed.

Reluctantly, clumsily, then faster.

Because you knew exactly which phrases had lived rent-free in your spine for too long.

Done.

You caught him glancing sideways. His screen dimmed just as yours did, locking your inputs.

You didn’t want to know what he’d written. But the room did.

A low mechanical hum vibrated through the air, and the wall across from you came alive. Light surged and split into fragmented holograms — each word sharp as a knife, floating midair, stuttering into full clarity. One at a time.

“Cognitive synchronization complete. Each phrase will be visualized using memory-sourced projection. Targets derived from active recall. Accuracy required. Proceed.”

You felt the data pull like a hook behind your eyes — memory sucked forward, scanned, sorted, shaped.

The first phrase came like a punch to the teeth. 

You were the safest place I knew. Until you put a ring on me and turned the lights off.

It hovered for a second, just long enough to register, and then dissolved. The smoke twisted and thickened. From it emerged a figure that stole your breath.

It was you.

Not the way you feel in mirrors, not the version eroded by grief or fury. This one was too poised, too precise. Her face was colder than you remembered yours ever being. Her beauty surgical. Her anger had been refined into stillness, and in that stillness — something worse than screaming.

She looked at Caleb like he’d failed a test she never let him study for.

You hesitated.

Your fingers twitched around the shotgun’s grip. You lifted it slightly, almost reflexively — but something inside you screamed don’t. You didn’t remember saying it like that. Not with that finality. Maybe in anger, maybe meaning something else entirely. But this version of you didn’t look like she regretted a thing.

She raised her own weapon.

You flinched.

But Caleb fired first.

The shot was sharp, efficient. Her body shattered into a scatter of static and fractured light.

You turned to him, stunned. His fingers were still trembling on the trigger. Yours were, too.

Not just by the sound of the shot, or the way your projected self shattered — but by the fact that he had pulled the trigger.

On you.

Even if it wasn’t you-you. Even if it was just light and memory, coded and cruel. He had done it. Without hesitation.

It felt final somehow. Like something sacred had cracked open and spilled out. Like you’d crossed a threshold you didn’t know existed.

Because you used to believe — no, know — that even at your ugliest, your worst, your most furious, he would never hurt you. Not like that. You had believed, with a terrifying kind of faith, that he’d sooner put a bullet through his own head than raise a weapon to yours.

And maybe that was still true. But maybe it wasn’t.

Maybe too much had decayed between you. Maybe the divorce had rewritten you both in ways neither of you were ready to see.

You didn’t want to ask. You didn’t want to know the answer.

Neither of you spoke. You could see in his face that the phrase had lived in him longer than you’d ever meant it to. Long enough to calcify. Long enough to echo. Long enough to ruin.

You froze, body coiled in silent expectation.

You knew what was coming. You could feel it before the text even appeared, like a static current pulling through your chest. The phrase you typed. The one you swore you wouldn’t look at when it came.

But it came anyway.

The words unfolded in slow motion, thick with memory, with everything unsaid between you. A sentence shaped like him.

I was too blinded by loving you. You only let me touch you when you wanted something. You pull my heart like a puppet on strings.

It didn’t feel like watching something. It felt like being flayed.

Your breath caught.

You fired — too soon. You missed. Glass behind the projection cracked, but the thing itself remained.

You hadn’t wanted to see it. You hadn’t wanted to hear it again. You regretted typing it. You regretted remembering it. You regretted ever giving those words a place to live inside you.

You could feel Caleb tense beside you. Not from the content — he already knew the line — but from the timing. From your reaction. From how fast you'd tried to erase it.

You gritted your teeth. Lifted the gun again. A bead of sweat rolled down your temple, cool and traitorous.

You aimed. And fired.

The figure burst apart — no scream, no sound — just a silent, violent fireworks display of red-gold pixels. Gone.

You stood there, breathing hard, hand tight on the grip, pulse roaring in your throat.

And only then did you understand.

Why he’d shot your projection first. Why it hadn’t felt like betrayal, not really.

Because these versions of you — of him — these pale ghosts, weaponized by memory and algorithm, weren’t real anymore. They were remnants. Monsters made of moments that no longer had the right to exist. Not even here, in a world built of nothing but ones and zeroes.

You hadn’t destroyed him. You’d destroyed the version of him that hurt you.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what he’d done too.

More phrases came. Some his. Some yours.

Why do you always disappear?

Shot. Flash. A twist in the gut. You don’t stop moving.

I felt safer when you weren’t there.

Shot. Flash. His shoulders jerk. You catch it, pretend you didn’t.

You made me into someone I hated.

Shot. Flash. You almost drop the gun. Almost.

You wanted control more than connection.

Shot. Flash. You taste metal in your mouth. Don’t know if it’s from the memory or your own tongue.

It all becomes a blur — fragments of truth, shredded light, the weight of your weapon like a heartbeat in your hand.

Then —

One more.

It doesn’t come fast. It lands.

Like a final breath drawn sharp before the plunge.

His.

I loved you so much it destroyed me.

No shape yet. Just the words, hanging. Clean. Unfiltered. Unhidden.

Like he never got the chance to say them out loud. Like some part of him still hadn’t stopped saying them, even now.

Everything in the room goes still. Even the flicker of light quiets. And you feel it — that if you move now, everything will break.

You don’t know when the tears started. They weren’t dramatic. They didn’t sting. They just existed — like breath, like gravity. Sliding down your cheeks with the same quiet inevitability as everything else that’s ever gone wrong.

You were back there. In that moment. Before the signature. Before the sound of the pen on paper. When he looked at you across the room, and said it  — not to win you back, not to argue, not to accuse. Just to say it.

Because it was true.

And now here he was again — only not really. A pixelated Caleb. A slowed, AI-crafted echo of that same version. Stepping forward from the projection field like it remembered how he moved.

The voice that left his mouth was mechanical, but still it hit like flesh: “I loved you so much it destroyed me.”

Exactly the way he had said it then. The rhythm, the weight. The slight lift at the end that had felt like a question, a prayer, a hope too stupid to say out loud.

This ghost carried it too. You didn’t raise your gun. You couldn’t.

You couldn’t shoot that. Not the hope. Not the part that believed.

And so —

Caleb did.

No hesitation.

A clean, brutal shot that tore the projection apart mid-step. The ghost shattered like it had never mattered. Never happened. Never existed.

And then there was silence. When you turned to him, his face gave you nothing.

A mask. Still. Cold. The kind of stillness that doesn’t come from control, but from emptiness. Like your love hadn’t just hurt him.

It had hollowed him.

And maybe he was right. Maybe there really was nothing left.

“Nothing left to break,” he said quietly. “Nothing left to ruin.”

You looked at him. Eyes wide. Wet. Fragile in a way that made your skin crawl.

“Do you think I wanted this?” you asked, voice raw, like something torn.

He stared at the air where the projection had been, then turned his head slightly — just enough to catch your gaze. But his face didn’t change. He was somewhere else.

“No one wanted this,” he said. “And now we’re literally shooting pieces of ourselves. Burning through our own memories. Like wanderers. Like something foreign. Something we don’t belong to anymore.”

He looked around the room — at the shards of your past, still flickering. Smoke curling around dying light. A graveyard of ghosts you built together.

“It’s ugly,” he added. “But it’s beautiful, too. In its ruin.”

For the first time since the experiment began, you genuinely wanted to leave. Not rage-walk. Not storm out. Just… go.

Slip out the side door of your own psyche and vanish into air that didn’t taste like grief.

But there was no exit. Only forward.

Caleb moved ahead without a word. His body, usually so precise, so full of intention, now moved with the flatness of routine, of resignation. Like he, too, would rather be anywhere else — any room, any war zone, any alternate timeline — as long as it was far from this one. Far from you.

Still, you followed.

Your jaw clenched. Your breath caught sharp behind your teeth. You could feel the exhaustion sliding down your spine, thick and slow, but you didn’t let it stop you. You were going to finish this room. This experiment. This punishment. Whatever it was.

You were going to finish it with your head up. Even if, by the end, the only thing left to break was you.

And him.

Because he wasn’t stopping either.

And if the only thing you could do now was survive each other — then so be it.

The next room was vast. Empty in that curated kind of way that made chaos feel designed.

A sprawl of objects covered the floor — furniture, glass, cheap electronics, ceramic towers, crushed memories disguised as junk. It looked random, but you knew better. Nothing in this place was random.

And then there were the cars. Or what passed for cars.

Two stripped-down, reinforced vehicles — half desert racer, half post-apocalyptic scrap tank. No doors. No bodies. Just exposed frames padded with thick rubber guards. For safety. For impact.

In each one, a helmet.

You reached for the driver’s seat, fingers brushing the wheel, ignoring the helmet like it was a suggestion, not a rule — until Caleb’s voice cut in, low and sharp.

“Don’t even think about it.”

You froze. Spun on him.

“Oh, you’re giving orders now? That’s rich.”

You held the helmet by the chin strap, weighing it like you might throw it at his head.

“What about you?” you snapped. “Think I didn’t notice you weren’t planning to wear yours either?”

He didn’t answer. Just walked up to you and, with a startling lack of hesitation, jammed the helmet down onto your head. It caught on your ears. You cursed. He tightened the strap under your chin like he’d done it a hundred times. Maybe he had.

“I’ll wear mine,” he said, finally. “I know what this is. I know I’m your target.”

“That’s not the point of the exercise,” you muttered, flushed — not just from rage, but from the unbearable closeness of his fingers near your pulse.

You hated how your body still reacted. How it didn’t get the memo.

“Then let’s go,” he said, gesturing toward a tall ceramic vase as if that made anything simpler. “Hit something that won’t hit back.”

You threw yourself behind the wheel.

The engine roared awake — guttural, loud, too loud. It made your bones vibrate. Made your blood move. You wanted to scream. Instead, you pressed the gas.

At first, you aimed where you were supposed to — toward the objects. Toward the walls of cheap plaster, mannequins dressed in tattered remnants of other lives, cardboard boxes that exploded with satisfying finality under your tires. Something crunched. Something hissed. The world responded to your force. You smirked.

It felt good. But not enough.

Not with him still grinning across the room like this was just another simulation. Another exercise. Another moment where he got to stay composed while you unraveled.

And so —

You jerked the wheel. Toward him.

You slammed your foot down and the car jolted forward, rattling like a live thing. You didn’t know what you were doing. Only that you wanted impact. Needed it.

Caleb veered sharply to the right. You followed. He hit a cluster of mannequins, their limbs flying like blown petals. You turned tighter, skidding across a field of splintered boxes, your tires spitting cardboard shrapnel.

"Thought you said this wasn’t about targeting me!" he shouted over the roar of the engines.

"It’s not," you yelled back, swerving hard to chase him. "It’s about physics. You just happen to be in the way!"

He laughed. Loud. Honest. Then, dodging left, "God, you were a menace on a tricycle."

"And you were a sanctimonious little hall monitor!"

"You stole my lunch for a month!"

"You deserved it. You put raisins in everything."

“You loved raisin muffins.”

“Muffins, Caleb. Not pasta. Not rice.”

Another near-miss. You clipped the back of his car with a glorious metallic screech. He swerved, recovered, accelerated. You pushed harder.

You were hunting him now. You wanted to see him sweat. Not because you hated him, but because you couldn’t stand how much you still didn’t.

“Who gave the toddler a license?” he barked.

“Probably the same genius who made you a colonel!”

And then you caught him.

Your front bumper slammed into the side of his car with a satisfying, ugly crunch. Both vehicles jolted. Metal howled. You felt your own body snap forward, then whip back.

Then — his car spun, but yours skidded too far. You tried to correct, but it was too late.

You hit the wall.

Plywood gave way with a groan, but not enough. Your car embedded half its frame into the splintering surface, the engine sputtering, then smoking — thick, chemical breath rising like something had finally given up.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t panic. You just… stopped.

The world narrowed.

Then he was there.

You didn’t see him jump out. Didn’t see him run. But suddenly he was there, ripping open the harness, yanking the helmet off your head with shaking hands.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he snapped, eyes scanning you, touching your shoulders, your arms, your ribs like memory. “Are you hurt? Are you —? Look at me. Pips! Look at me.”

You looked. And then — smirked.

A small, crooked thing, like the aftermath of chaos.

Then you laughed.

At first, it was just breath. A puff of absurdity.  But it built. And it broke.

You laughed harder. The kind of laughter that comes too close to tears, that spills out sideways and jagged. Your whole body shook. You couldn't stop. Couldn't breathe.

And then — he did too.

His forehead pressed against yours. His chest stuttered with laughter. It wasn’t funny. It was never funny. And that’s what made it so goddamn necessary.

You clung to each other like gravity had forgotten how to work.

Your fists balled in the front of his shirt. His arms circled around your back, then up, then closed like steel around your head. He pulled you to his chest and held you there, hard, tight, like the world could crack open any second and he wasn’t going to risk letting go.

Your laughter broke first.

It caved.

And then came the sob.

One. Then another.

Your shoulders buckled. Your breath hitched. And then you were sobbing against him — ugly, heaving, violent tears that had waited far too long. Everything you hadn’t said, hadn’t allowed, hadn’t felt came pouring out in great gasping waves.

He held you like it was all he knew how to do.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

“Why does it hurt so much, Caleb?” you whispered through the sobs, your nails digging into his back. “Why did every day with you start feeling like a survival quest?”

His lips brushed your temple, featherlight. His fingers moved through your hair — slow, grounding, almost clinical in their tenderness. A rhythm. A scan. Every few strokes, the pressure shifted just slightly, as if mapping out where you carried the worst of it.

And still, you couldn’t ignore the truth: you knew exactly what he was capable of. With those same hands, he could crack your skull like a walnut. Break you clean in two.

But he didn’t. And that restraint ached just as much as anything else.

“I don’t have an answer,” he murmured. “I only know one thing. That being without you hurt worse. But the idea that you were suffering with me... That I — my own fear, my own fucking hands — destroyed the most sacred thing I ever touched...”

You shook your head and pressed your hand to his mouth. You didn’t want to hear the end of that sentence. You wouldn’t survive it.

“We both did it,” you said. “You don’t get to take all the blame. It’s always two people. Always. Equal weight.”

He kissed your fingers. Gently. And you pulled your hand back like it had caught fire.

The flicker in his eyes was instant.

Pain. And something else — like memory, or the echo of wanting.

“There was a time,” he said, “when we were the closest people in the world. Cliché or not, we were a single thing. Now look at us. Look at you. I’m not even sure you want me this close.”

“No,” you snapped, gripping his shoulders. “No, don’t say that. I’m terrified of how much I need you close. I’m scared of what I might do if you keep looking at me like that. If you touch me again. I’ve been fighting since the moment we walked into this place. Fighting not to —”

“Not to what?” he growled, closer now, voice frayed.

“Not to try again,” you breathed. “Not to want again.”

His hands locked around your waist. His face was right there. Breath on breath. Your bodies a magnet of wrong time, wrong place, right everything.

But he didn’t kiss you.

He held you at the edge, suspended, with something like agony in his eyes.

“Saying that out loud,” he said through clenched teeth, “is reckless. It’s dangerous.”

“Meaning it is worse,” you said, barely audible.

You could feel his heart against your ribs — fast, raw, so human it hurt to listen. And then he said, lower now:

“Are you really this cruel? You want the last working piece of me to break, don’t you?”

“No,” you whispered, stepping back, breath shivering. “No, Caleb. If I could, I’d give everything — everything — just to take your pain away. But how can I, when I’m still living in rubble? When I don’t know how to plan for tomorrow, or next week. When I can’t even picture where I’m going. I just keep moving. Blind.”

He looked at you for a long time.

And in that look — something bottomless. Not pity. Not anger. Something like recognition. You felt it in your ribs, your spine, your breath. Like he’d looked through your skin and seen the exact same void you saw in him.

He stepped back gently. Then rose to his feet.

Wordlessly, he extended a hand to help you up. You took it. Let him lift you.

He glanced around the room, then toward the wreckage, the wall, the place where your car had finally given up.

A low huff of a laugh escaped him.

“Of course,” he muttered. “The exit’s right where you crashed.”

You followed his gaze.

He was right.

Just one thing left to break.

The wall gave way with almost no resistance. It split open like it had been waiting for the final blow. You stepped through, side by side, not speaking. And suddenly, the world shifted.

No floor. No weight. No direction. You were in a massive, sterile cylinder, suspended in air — except there was no air current, no movement, no sensation of falling. Just drift. Your feet detached from the surface, and that was it. You were floating. Weightless. Unanchored.

The space felt unreal. Too smooth. Too quiet. A hum beneath the silence, like some great system breathing in sleep. High above, three exit hatches blinked with dull blue light — two narrow, one wide. The single exits were clearly labeled. The larger one read: DUO. Beneath it, a platform hovered, inert. A voice filtered in through the chamber, calm and cold.

“Three exits. One for each individual. One for those who remain. Shared exit requires cooperative locomotion and continuous dual contact. Time limit: irrelevant. Success requires choice.”

You drifted. He drifted. You turned your head and saw him across the space, his body slow-spinning, expression tight. This was supposed to be his realm. Gravity. That was his Evol, his identity, his anchor. But here, it was nothing. Disabled. Cut off. You could see the glitch in him, the way he processed the loss of control. And still, he didn’t panic. He just… adjusted.

You floated near one of the solo exits. It would be so easy. A small push. An end. A beginning. Alone. And then it passed behind you.

You saw him again, a little closer this time. You reached out, almost without thinking, and caught his hand. No rush. No symbolism. Just fingers brushing fingers in a place without weight.

Your hands gripped. Held. And you pulled yourself in, gently, until your faces were close enough for words. Your breath felt warm between you, even in the cold of engineered air.

“I’m not ready to leave here without you,” you said. “I don’t know what that means, or what it’ll cost. But I’m not ready.”

He didn’t speak immediately. His hand tightened on yours. Then, suddenly focused, he said, “Wrap your legs around my waist.”

You blinked. “What —”

“Trust me. I can’t bend the field in here, but I can feel the currents — like micro-resistance. If we stay connected, I think I can guide us through it.” His voice shifted into command mode — confident, steady, and irritatingly hot. “Angle your hips left. No, a little more. Perfect. Now shift your weight forward.”

You moved with him. It felt awkward at first, like trying to learn to breathe underwater. But then something clicked — your center of gravity merged, found alignment, caught onto an invisible pulse. Like tuning into a frequency only his body knew how to hear.

“There,” he said. “We’re in it.”

You glided, slowly at first, then more directly. He adjusted, compensated, kept you level. He took you through the space like a conductor feeling the music in muscle and bone.

The platform under the shared exit blinked to life as you approached.

“Now,” he said, and reached out. Together, you hit the button.

Gravity returned in a single, devastating second. You dropped like a stone — feet on solid ground, air in your lungs, heat in your skin. You didn’t let go of each other. Not right away.

Not yet.

What came next stunned you. 

Where pain and rage had once lived like permanent tenants, there was only silence. You no longer felt the urge to scream, to break something, to tear through walls or claw through your own skin. Something had been rewritten in you. Recoded. As if the metaphysical cancer had been excised. Removed without anesthesia, yes — but removed all the same.

You took one step. Then another. And your body felt different. Not like it did in zero-gravity, not quite. But something remained of that lightness. That sense of floating just above your own sorrow.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. Words would have broken the seal on something sacred.

You emerged into the final hallway together. Unspoken choreography. At the return counter, you shed the gear — gloves, goggles, names. One of the staff blinked, visibly surprised, and said, almost to himself, “No one’s ever mastered the gravity room that fast.” Then louder, “Would you like photos?”

You looked at the screen, flipping quickly past the chaos, the fracture, the violence. You stopped on the frame where the two of you floated — just suspended, hands clasped, nowhere to go but together. You tapped it. Took the printout without a word.

Caleb printed something for himself, too. You didn’t see what.

You walked outside. It was already dark, the wind sharp against your cheeks. The kind of cold that wakes you up, reminds you that you’re still alive.

Without meaning to, your bodies shifted toward familiar geography — toward your place. Once his, too.

And then, like nothing had changed and everything had, he slipped off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders. No words. No offer. Just instinct.

You didn’t argue. The fabric was warm. And it smelled like him. Like worn-in leather and something sharp underneath. You let it settle.

“What do you regret most?” you asked, quietly, almost to yourself. Maybe you shouldn’t have. But you knew, with sudden clarity, that whatever came now — wouldn’t hurt.

Maybe it would be sad. But it wouldn’t be cruel.

“That I gave up too soon,” he said, after a moment.

You laughed softly. “Too soon? You followed me for three months. After work. To the grocery store. You left flowers in my bike basket. Random books on my doorstep.”

He gave a crooked shrug, not quite defensive. “It sounds stupid now. Hollow. But I didn’t know what else to do. How else to tell you I was trying. That I was willing to change. That I just needed you to hear me.”

“To me it felt like a trap,” you said. “Like you were setting bait. Like you wanted to pin me down and hold me there. In the state I was in... if you’d just disappeared for a week, I probably would’ve come running. In tears. Begging you not to leave again.”

He sighed. “So I got it wrong. Again.”

“Not wrong, exactly.” You looked at him, then ahead. The street was quiet. Your block already in sight. “That’s the problem, I think. For both of us. We keep thinking we know better. Like I assume I know what you need, when really, it’s just what I need.”

You glanced at him. “Like you dreaming your whole life of this expensive model starship. Then giving it to me. Thinking it would make me happy. Because it would make you happy.”

His smile came slow, bittersweet. “And all you ever wanted was someone to just sit on the porch and look at the moon.”

You nodded. “Exactly.”

By then, you were already at the gate. Home.

You stopped. Both of you.

You didn’t reach for your keys. He didn’t move forward. Just standing there, jacket on your shoulders, silence resting comfortably between your bodies.

“Caleb…” you said softly, already knowing you didn’t need to finish.

He sighed. The kind of sigh that had learned to carry meaning. “I don’t have an answer,” he said. “I want to try again. And I don’t. I dream about holding you every night, and then I wake up. And it’s… cruel.”

“I have the same thoughts,” you admitted. “But I can’t just erase you. Not now. Not ever. And I’ll never be the one to suggest we stay friends.”

He smiled gently, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Technically, you just did.”

“I said I’d never say it,” you shot back, lifting your chin. “Not that I said it.”

There was a beat, then you added, “What if we let chance decide?”

“A coin toss?” he raised an eyebrow.

“No. The photos. The ones we printed. If they match — if they’re even close — I’ll invite you in. For tea.”

He tilted his head, amused. “Tea. Very non-committal of you.”

“If they don’t match,” you continued, “then maybe… it’s not the time. Maybe we see each other again. Maybe we don’t.”

“You always did like risk,” he said dryly. “Alright. No promises.”

“No promises,” you echoed.

“On three?”

You both pulled out your photos at the same time. Held them up.

The silence stretched.

“Well then,” you said.

“Yeah,” he murmured, the edge of a smile in his voice.

“I have only one question,” you said, turning toward the door, your voice lighter now, teasing. “Black or green?”

He gave a soft huff and curled his arm gently around your waist, guiding you toward the entrance. “Like you don’t already know.”

“I do,” you said, slipping the photo back into your bag. 

The exact same photo. Identical in angle, in light, in pause. The moment where you floated together. Still not touching. But already not letting go.

The... END?

So… you survived the end. But is it really the end?

Let’s be honest — I wrote a scene. A very explicit one. The kind I haven’t posted before. Spicy, slow, and entirely too much in the best/worst way. But after everything that happened in this story, slapping it on the end felt… wrong. Like putting a silk ribbon on a smoking crater. So I cut it.

But. If this hits 100 reblogs in 24h, I’ll post the continuation I cut — the scene that didn’t fit the concept, because it was too much: too raw, too intimate, too honest. But also... very, very smutty. And maybe the only kind of peace these two could’ve found. You know what I’m talking about. You’ve earned it. Let’s see if they do.

[violetsiren90]

today is so depressing and scary and I was wondering if I could request some binnie gurt and comfort with the couple from the light in your eyes? ty in advance and take care ❤‍🩹

Pairing: Changbin/Reader (gender not mentioned, but this does reference the Light of Your Eyes couple)

Genre: drabble; established relationship; hurt/comfort

Summary: Sometimes everything is wrong...everything but him.

Content warnings: PG for content, but all my work is 18+ (minors, DNI); descriptions of feelings of deep unhappiness; implied dissociation; emotional catharsis; tears; hugs and being HELD 🥺❤

Word Count: ~500

Author's Note: Here you are, Anon! Today is indeed bleak, and I hope this helps even a tiny bit. Please take care of yourself, my friend.

Precious readers and moots: If any of you find yourself feeling hurt, despondent, and unsafe and need someone to turn to, please feel free to message me or send me an ask. Don't let anyone or anything induce you to doubt that you are so incredibly deserving of being seen and held.

You, each and every one of you, are so loved and worthy of it. 🧜💜

***********************

It’s not raining - in fact, there’s not a cloud in the sky. The autumn air is crisp and clear and the leaves hang brightly and decadently on the branches of the trees as you stand at your own front door. You can feel your features tugging downward in dejection, your body aching and shivering with the deep sort of unhappiness that feels like a chill as you hesitate to take your misery over the threshold.

It's not raining, but it should be. Pouring. Thunder rumbling somewhere afar as you stand in the torrent. Then at least it would feel right, and maybe you would feel like you belonged in that body, standing in that place instead of whatever this is - with the sunshine and the calls of the migrating geese.

Your lip trembles and your heart hammers with the adrenaline of anger and pain...

And then you remember.

He’d asked you not to do this to yourself, said that he wanted it. To share it.

So you curse at the sun and the gentle breeze and turn your key in the lock.

“Bin?” You call instantly, desperately, kicking off your shoes and tossing away your bag.

“Bin!” You drop your coat in the hall as your legs carry you with stumbling steps to his home studio.

When you open the door, he’s already halfway out of his chair with his headphones around his neck, dark lovely eyes wide behind his black-rimmed glasses, and when you reach for him he sinks back down and pulls you over his lap.

Strong arms circle your waist as his head tilts against yours where you press your face into the crook of his neck.

One of his hands splays over your back as he rubs it in wide, soothing circles. He doesn’t ask you what’s wrong, that will come later. Right now he holds you.

Some wrongs can’t be righted. Not by you. Life can be terribly unfair. It can be downright cruel. But you can be afraid and angry and confused and sad…and in his arms.

Releasing a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, your tears silently begin to fall.

He kisses into your hair.

His body is sturdy and soft and you breathe in cologne and detergent and the scent of his skin and you feel his chest expand and contract, silently beckoning your own to match its steady pace where you're pressed against him.

His presence washes over you and draws you in - deeper, softer. Safer.

Safe. Held. Of nothing required.

One of your hands slides up to tangle your fingers in the dark curls at the back of his head.

And then you’re not wishing for rain anymore. The warmth and peace feel like they belong to you - to your body, to your soul - even in your grief.

“I love you,” comes his gentle, deep murmur.

Not in placation, but in promise.

When you find your words again you’ll whisper those three in return, as you always do. But until then, and in every moment hideous or lovely thereafter, you’ll reach for Changbin, and he will hold you.

-Fin-

[patchworkcuddlebug]

Always More

"My love, please." I wrap my arms around her, "You were always so scared of blood, of..."

Monsters. Creatures of the night, parasites of immense power stalking the weak and turning them into helpless slaves, used for nothing but blood. Formerly human things made dead to their instincts, harbingers of death and suffering and miserable helplessness.

"...of vampires."

She still only shakes her head, a reassuring smile on her face. "No, it's... fine, really. You didn't even drink that much, I think."

I look down at her arm. The puncture wounds carefully dug in to dodge her arteries, left to trickle just a bit more tantalizing blood. My mouth still waters, my undead soul still craves.

I need to put it away. Put her away, get her away. I still feel so much hunger.

I grab at the first aid kit behind me, and begin our ritual. Disinfectant, gauze, bandages. I've been told that such things should be little concern for a vampire, but I'm never sure what those who told me have meant. Still, I kneel and start wrapping her, keeping her safe.

My love takes a moment to look down at herself, at her arm, seeming lost in thought. "Are you sure that's all you want, mistress? I really don't-"

I feel my body seize. "No, please don't call me that."

"Oh, sorry," I feel her stop herself. "I just... since you enthralled me, it just feels... I dunno, normal? Still, I'll obey."

I feel my hand squeeze tighter around hers.

"...is everything okay, my Lady?"

I force myself to my feet and recoil away from her, afraid to lay my hands on her. "No, no, this isn't right, I can't do this, this isn't you."

"Oh," A stop. A single second of hesitation. "you're still worried about compelling me, aren't you?"

She tries to step closer to me, and I back away.

"I didn't fall in love with you just so you could be another bloodbag." I can't bring myself to look at her, to look at those eyes where everything but blind adoration has been forced away. "I was supposed to be with you, not with..."

I feel the pressure in my eyes. My corpse is aching for a release, for a way to get this out of my system, for a feeling of human catharsis from the simple instinct to cry. But nothing comes out. All I can do is ball my hand into a fist, letting my claws bloodlessly dig into my frigid skin...

...and then feel something much softer, much warmer, curl around it.

"Do you remember when we met?" Even now, her voice is so soft. Much too soft.

I don't dare move. "You were jogging through the park. You stopped in my shade and offered to share your snacks."

She giggles. It's such a pure song. "You tried so hard to politely refuse without giving away the game. Thanks for trying some, anyway."

I ignore the disgust welling in my throat. Instead, it's a rancid, gnawing guilt.

"You were so loud." My hand twists, trying to grab hers back. "So friendly, so fun. So free. Always running to somewhere new, always in such beautiful motion."

I can't let my fist tighten. I would stare into the sunrise before ever daring to hurt her. "I'm sorry I took all that away from you." My voice is so sullen, I even feel guilt to burden her with my self-pity. I shouldn't be the victim.

Her voice was unwavering. "You're a gift, Iris."

She places a gentle hand against my cheek, guiding my face to look at hers. Even as I look at her, she doesn't fade. It's still her.

"You're the most wonderful person I've ever met. You're endlessly caring, you do so much to spoil me and take care of me. I cherish your company, all our long talks, all those lovely adventure you join me for. I don't care what you're doing to my mind, I'd give all of myself just to be with you."

She tilts her head and smiles. "That includes blood, of course."

I can't fight her anymore. I never could. Everything about her is so wonderful, so... enthralling.

I let her rest her hand on the back of my head, slowly guiding it into place in the crook of her neck. "Please, have as much of me as you want. I love you, Iris."

I obey.

[lewdlepoodle69]

Miwa and Saeko from How Do We Relationship?

Prefacing with a recommendation to GO READ HDWR: it's great! It's a romance between two women in their band club (for some reason all the best yuri involves music???), and it's about the struggles of relationships. It focusses way more on the stuff that a majority of romance stories do not include, like: breaking up, strained romance, whether the people in the romance are actually comparable, stuff like that. The first three volumes are scanlated for free, the official english localisation is releasing the twelfth of its total fourteen volumes very soon. It just ended. Go read it. Please. It's more than worth your time.

Aaaaagh. I was in a bit of a scramble to get this done. Not because of any actual demand for art of these two, but because the manga just finished and it's a story that really means a lot to me. So I guess I just wanted to get it out for myself? For like catharsis, or something. Maybe if I get round to making more art of these two the process will get calmer cause I'll have explored more ground. That's kinda how it feels with the Signalis stuff I've done.

Getting this piece off the ground was a bit of a hurdle. I hadn't properly studied what a rainy scene actually is, so there was a lot of futile teeth grinding and hair pulling and just generally being angry. But after I asked my mum about it and I came to the understanding that it's actually pretty dark when it rains the rendering became so much easier and it was pretty smooth sailing from then on. (I'm proud of the rocks)

That being said, I think I need to practice daytime scenery more. I feel like drawing them isn't quite suited to the more noisy style I've developed because you can see more and therefore there will be much more noise than if it was dark I guess. Or I need to fit the style to the scene. IDK. But I think I'm happy with this? I always write these descriptions RIGHT AFTER final export so I'm always unsure about how I feel. Sorry about that haha. Enjoy :)

[coriphallus]

A little rant on patch 6 and the implications for bg3's future

Okay, bear with me for a sec its gonna go somewhere eventually. My first bg3 run (thats spammed here on this blog) i played ascended astarion/dark urge romance where i picked the reject bhaal and become the absolute ending.

as it was my first playthrough on release i was vibrating off mt seat and i didnt really have elaborate HCs or anything, i was just doing a quick evil run until the bugs get sorted out. i didn't think much beyond "yes this dude would want the shiny stones for himself"

first time i saw astarion enthralled, i was confused. he asked me to do it, he was quite insistent on it since the beginning of the game. i was confused for a couple of hours, digesting the entire game i just played. Then it hit me; the game was calling me out. it was telling me ive been stupid for not having seen this coming and at that point i felt awe.

it was right, everything pointed to this, it was right in front of my eyes all i needed was to connect the dots that the game laid out quite visibly and i was just too caught up to see.

'well my durge would never do that' didnt matter because thats exactly what the companions thought. Gale thought the powers of an insatiable weave wouldnt corrupt him, that he'd stay true to himself, shadowheart thought shar had blessed and her she'd guide her, that she could be her true self under her influence, astarion thought he'd be free, that he'd cherish the bond he'd made with the player but at the end of the day power reveals; and when that power is acquired through the corpses of thousands its quite evident that Absolute power corrupts absolutely. IT WAS IN THE FKIN NAME.

it was a shining bait i was so focused on getting my hands on that i didn't look back to see the mountain of corpses i had to step on to get there. the game was telling me 'HEY LOOK AT EVERYTHING YOU'VE DONE TO GET HERE, LOOK AT WHAT HAPPENED TO ALL THE OTHERS WHO THOUGHT THEY COULD ACHIEVE THIS, DO YOU THINK YOU'D HOLD HANDS AND SING KUMBAYA WITH YOUR FRIENDS AFTER ALL THIS?'

just as there was never an option where frodo could stab saurons flaming eyeball and sit on his throne with the ring on his finger and sam at his side, there was never an ending i could get my 'happy ending' the way id like it to. i wanted frodo to remain in middle earth and have some peace in the end, i didnt understand how he was 'too changed' to remain and sam wasnt when i first read the books. i was angry even, that i didnt get what i wanted. it wasnt like tolkien haphazardly put together an ending out of his ass bcs he didnt know what to do with the characters, its not that he didn't think while writing that the fans would hate it, he wrote a story that achieved its catharsis by reaching its narrative conclusion. it couldnt have done that any other way. it was deliberate. i may not have understood or agreed at the time but it was the story he wanted to tell, and it wouldnt be one of the greatest stories ever told if the writer wanted to please a 10 y/o like myself.

it was never out of character for my durge at all, i was just blissfully avoiding the NARRATIVE.

months later we get this absolute narrative abomination:

and all i can say is im worried.

im worried bcs this is a clear disrespect to the story they've written, im worried bcs if they can do off with huge plot elements and beats such as this just like that it shows a lack of commitment to their own plot and if a huge Point of the game can be treated like a minor mistake than what else can? was is just a lack of oversight that laezel gets killed under vlaakith? can it be waved off if enough vlaakith loving gith players come together and shout loud enough that they want to ride alongside their queen with their gith gf?

what part of the game is tangible to hold on to, and after two years worth of patches that are made to appease the fans at the expense of the story, will it still be the game i fell in love with?

i dont blame the fans for wanting, i blame the devs for delivering. that they could sacrifice the integrity of a pretty straightforward story bodes ill tidings for the future of this game.

yes i wanted this feature, but i was glad i wasn't given it. i may have been confused and slightly miffed that i didn't get to reign supreme with my evil bf, but i immensely respected the game that could call me out on it. i wish they could show the same respect to their own writing.

[toomanyf4ndoms7]

An essay about Barbara Gordon. Part two: Clowns and Catharsis.

Welcome back.

Part one, which was mainly about Oracle Year One.

This part will be discussing lasting effects of Barbara’s new role, and also about how certain writers handle catharsis.

@mrsbertinelli

@spoilerqlert

Following Oracle Year One, Barbara is reinvented as Oracle, who to give the basic rundown of her skills: is an information broker for the superhero community, helping out not just the bat-family, but the justice league, and even forming her own hero team in the Birds of Prey.

She even got a new arch enemy in the form of the Calculator (basically another hacker who was obsessed with learning who Oracle was) and acted as a mentor towards Cassandra Cain and Stephanie Brown later on.

But even though Barbara was settled in a new role, one that could only be filled by her, there’s always the enticing intrigue for writers and readers alike:

What about The Joker? What would happen if he showed back up? Would she freeze up? Fight? Would she obsess?

Depending on the writer, there’s been a few different ways:

Sometimes, she takes physical revenge, beating him up. (We know my feelings about Babs getting ‘cured’ and becoming Batgirl again, but that’s not the point)

Other times, she plays more of a psychological “I am not taking you seriously.” This typically gets under Joker's skin as a chronic attention-craver, not being taken with any threat or seriousness.

However, while I will never refuse either beating Joker up or making him look pathetic as a half drowned rat with green hair, one of the personal favourite ways comes in Joker: Last Laugh.

Basically, Joker learns he’s gotten a deadly illness and goes “Welp. Gotta cause as much havoc as possible via infecting folks with joker venom."

And in the Secret Files, basically the prelude, we learn something about Barbara.

Barbara, in her head, still possibly has a little bit of self blame. If she was more careful, that wouldn’t have happened. So in the Belfry, she’s set up cameras in so she can monitor and watch him while imprisoned.

“If he does something. I’ll know. I won’t be caught off guard again.”

And Barbara isn’t portrayed as a villain or as a hysterical and trembling victim who needs to stop, she’s portrayed with this sense of calm because this is logical to her.

Anyway, Joker breaks out, causes chaos, (turns out he's not actually dying the doctor's just told him in the hopes he might turn his life choices around) Nightwing beats the life out of him but Joker gets brought back to life by Batman because of the no kill rule.

And the story ends on Barbara, watching the screens and deciding to shut them off. Because The Joker thrives on attention, and even if he doesn’t know, he’s still in her head, still winning.

Still laughing. So Barbara shuts off the screens, depriving him of silent attention.

And the art tells that she’s conflicted. Maybe she’ll regret it, Joker could break out again. But she’s not going to let him make her feel powerless and obsessive again.

So, in summary: The Killing Joke viewed Barbara as a victim. An easy way to wring out some pain for Jim Gordon, Batman and the audience. The Batgirl special released afterwards from TKJ, while it did add some info, doesn’t change that Barbara was crippled just as a vehicle for angst.

Oracle Year One reinvented her, breathed new life into a character who could’ve been left as just “a victim in a chair” someone for the heroes to brood about how unfair it was.

And from that, Oracle became a major heroic powerhouse, an informant, a friend, a mentor, an inspiration.

Barbara hasn't always been written well, but the fact of it all is that someone looked at a disabled woman and went “No, this story isn’t going to end in a hospital bed.”

And, for all I have my complaints about later comics, that’s pretty cool.

Love you, Babs. Please come home.

[yoshihashismattebum]

Favourite Albums of 2024

Spotify Wrapped was fun and all, but I have one problem with it: it only focuses on individual songs! (Okay, that's not strictly true – I have many other problems with it as well. E.g. 'why is this playlist full of songs I've never listened to' and 'wtf is this AI podcast bullshit') Anyway, one of my goals for 2024 was to listen to more whole albums and I think I generally succeeded! I didn't listen to a ton, but more than previous years for sure.

So I thought it would be fun to pick and share my top 3 albums of the year! Here they are, in ascending order!

3) Yard Act - Where's My Utopia?

Post-punk jams that dig into the contradictions that come with fame as a punk band. Self-deprecating and unapologetic in equal measure, with lyrics that tread the line between 'smart' and 'smart-arse'. Oh you can dance to it too.

Highlights: We Make Hits, Dream Job,

2) St. Vincent – All Born Screaming

I'm not sure what genre this falls into. Rock? Alt-pop? Wikipedia reckons 'art rock', so let's go with that. Whatever you want to call it, it's a masterpiece of songwriting. It spans so many different genres and so many different themes: fame, identity, religion, grief. It's achingly raw and personal, but a lot of it is all too relatable. There's also another version entirely in Spanish, which is very cool!

Highlights: Reckless, Broken Man, Big Time Nothing

1) Allie X – Girl With No Face

Before this album, I'd always liked one song by Allie X (All The Rage) but could never get into anything else she'd done. Well, with the release of this album I'm pleased to say that that's no longer true. I honestly struggled to pick just 3 highlights because it's so packed with catchy alt-pop bangers. The lyrics are right up Tumblr's street too, with meditations on chronic illness, identity, gender, body dysmorphia, and one song that's all about getting top surgery. Truly exceptional imo.

Highlights: Black Eye, Off With Her Tits, Weird World

Honourable Mentions:

Sløtface – Film Buff

Sløtface are probably my favourite band of all time. Their live show this year was the best gig I've been to, let alone my favourite gig of 2024. So it's a shame that this album didn't quite crack the top three for me. Musically, it's the same joyous pop punk that I absolutely adore, but the lyrics didn't quite hit for me in the same way as their previous two albums. Still well worth a listen though!

Highlights: Quiet on Set, I Used To Be A Real Piece Of Shit, Final Gørl

Teen Mortgage – Teen Mortgage

I'm not entirely sure that this one qualifies as an album tbh, which is why I've excluded it from the top 3. Spotify has it down as a "compilation", so I think it's just a collection of their singles so far? Anyway, it kicks ass. It's the essence of punk: fast, loud and uncomplicated. Sometimes you don't need clever lyrics or subtle wordplay: you need 90 seconds of furious drumming, barely intelligible vocals about calling in sick to work, and a growling guitar riff that makes you want to fight God. Pure catharsis.

Highlights: Sick Day, Falling Down, Doctor

And because this is Tumblr, let's turn it into a tag game! Reblog this with your favourite albums of the year if you like! And tag some people whose recs you want to see!

I'm sure @thepenultimaterolo @thewaythroughthewoods and @unpairedbracket would have some great choices! And I'd be interested in hearing from @sycamoretrees @caranoirs and @counting-ducks as well if you're up for it! No pressure for any of you of course (and certainly no need to write as much as I have lol). Just if you feel like it :)

[castlebyersafterdark]

hiii i just wanted to come on here as a lesbian who is very pro spicy byler to maybe give a little personal experience and perspective to this convo. it’s also 5am for me rn so this might get too personal and also not make any sense sorry 😭😭

so at least for me, and not speaking for any other lesbian’s here cuz idk what their experience is, a big reason that i like spicy byler is Because i’m a lesbian and not attracted to men. in my own life i don’t think about men’s sexuality or have to consider men in a sexual way, so i can view sex between two men from a completely outside perspective - i don’t need feel inadequate about my own sexual experience because i don’t want to have any sexual experiences with men, there are no notes i need to take on technique, there’s nothing to feel insecure about never doing before and going “oh it would have been better if i had done that” or “that’s how it should have been? i’ve been doing it wrong this whole time? fuck.”. its almost like - because it has nothing to do with me and experiences i actually want to have in the future (at least technically, with anatomy and stuff, i definitely crave the emotional intimacy aspects) it’s just pure high fantasy. it can be hot and i can just enjoy it as hot because the characters find it hot. i think i also have a very deep attachment to these characters and their relationship that seeing them show their love in any way is very cathartic, whether that be sexually, where the release of catharsis is very much 1:1 mimicked by actually coming, or romantically, where tension is really built up and a simple, well written confession can be just as much of a release.

i do think that when i first started reading mlm smut i was definitely confused about what it meant for Me sexually. cuz it was like, ik i’m not sexually attracted to either of these men, i definitely don’t want to be in any sort of sexual situation with them, why do i find this so hot?? do i like men in general?? do i like male anatomy?? am i lying to myself??? but i’ve since realized it’s that its the emotional intimacy that i can relate to and enjoy from the character’s whereas the physical intimacy is something completely divorced from my reality, allowing me to enjoy it just as what it is without having to think too hard about my personal experience. there is no overthinking i have to do that gets in the way of my enjoyment. i can imagine for people who do have sexual experiences with men or are men that physical or sexual inaccuracy or just a general sense that this is an unrealistic physical feat or reaction can take you out of the moment and/or make you cringe - since i don’t have any experience with that, the only thing that takes me out of the moment is emotional and characterization inaccuracy. its the fact that i didn’t have to actually involve Myself (whether that be my own pleasure or how to go about pleasing a partner in a technical, physical sense) that allows me to enjoy it so much. there are zero personal implications that i have to take to heart thus allowing me to fully enjoy it without getting in my head about technicalities. its just - these people are finding pleasure in this, them experiencing pleasure is hot, what they’re experiencing must be hot. it feels very much like escapism for me. (i feel like i just said the same exact thing 10 times and still didn’t get the wording right lmao)

from what have gathered, its a very common formative experience for queer women to read and be turned on by male ships and the sexual experiences that are written about them - and ik friends irl that definitely relate to that as well. now, idk if this is the reason for all or a majority of enjoyment of this type of content, but i imagine this is not a completely unique experience in fandom for lesbians.

Thank you for sharing this!!!! Super super super interesting!!!! I kind of thought as much for some of your points but I've never seen it all spelled out quite like this. ❤️

[estheticpotaeto]

Fuck IT Friday

Tagged by the lovely: @aroeddiediaz

I wanted to post the whole thing as a little coda but i haven't written anything in years so it may take me some time to get this out. (Cut me some slack I'm cooking here) Anyways here is a VERY short snippet of what I'm calling "kinkley breakup because I said so

This he knows how to do, he always has, spent years practicing this exact skill, honing it to perfection. So what if the skin under his lips is a little tougher, the arms bigger and the shoulders broader? It's still just skin, it's still just human body. So Buck sucks on that spot at his neck, just a little, slowly trailing upwards behind his ear, to his jaw, lips scraping against the sandpaper stubble that sends a shiver down his back and finally, connecting with Tommy's lips, soft as that first time. Buck presses into him just a little more and once again, the churn in his stomach fades away, every twitch under his skin ceases, and every square inch of constriction around his lungs eases. He thinks he'll never get tired of this feeling, this release of decades long pressure. And if the catharsis still makes his eyes water just a bit, it's between him and his eyelids.

The ease dosent last of course, because Tommy's hand snakes away from his waist and to his chest, between them, and he pushes, simultaneously pulling away his lips, to murmur a soft "Evan."

He would have just pulled back and gave him another goofy grin, except he looks in Tommy's eyes and the set of his jaw that lookes so familiar it startles him and Buck's heart slips, along with his hands as he takes two full steps back.

Just as Buck can fight away the tendrils trying to creep around his lungs once more and tell them don't get ahead of yourself, it's probably nothing, Tommy takes the opening and slips out of where Buck had caged him between himself and the island, walking all the way to the sink to learn against it instead as he puts some space between them. His face hard and his eyes fixed on Buck. "We need to talk."

The intensity with which his insides twist makes him want to vomit, actually.

Tagging my moots because I don't know who else to tag please let me know if you want me to untag you <3(or tag you in future posts: @mazzystar24 @r144l3r @thisbarbi3isobs3ss3d @artemis-the-sinister

[vigilantempathy]

Ethics of Fandom?

(I'm sorry for the long post, I don't know how to put the "break" in, please feel free to comment with advice/instructions!)

I've been seeing more and more comments/posts related to fandom arguing that, basically, fandom works and fictional works in general need to have positive, non-problematic content in order to be allowed in fandom spaces... or viewed as morally correct.

I'd say I had some thoughts on that, but I'm straight up stealing most of those thoughts from Aristotle. So instead, here's my interpretation of fandom ethics, mostly through the lens of Aristotle's Poetics.

I'm generally a big believer that art in general and fandom in particular exist as avenues of catharsis. I don't think art (or fandom) exists to be positive or morally correct or make a better world. But I believe the act of creating art/fandom is a positive, prosocial way of exploring possibilities, choices, characters, and outcomes that might not necessarily be positive in reality. Some works of art have positive content, or impart moral lessons, or depict a better world, but many of them don't-- and they shouldn't have to.

Essentially, I view art and fandom and their contents (whatever those contents are) as morally neutral, but I see the act of creating art or fandom as morally good.

The more problematic or "immoral" the content, the more firmly I believe that the most positive option available is choosing to create art about it instead of choosing to explore it in real life where there could be real adverse consequences to real people.

I read Aristotle's Poetics in high school and still agree with his idea that societies and the individuals in them create and share art as a safe way of exploring impulses or desires they can't safely explore in real life.

Poetics focuses specifically on the importance of tragedies (and their narrative structures) as a means of letting an audience of everyday people explore how the uglier impulses of mankind can play out and experience emotional gratification of these immoral actions using art rather than having to take these actions themselves in reality to achieve the same emotional gratification.

"Catharsis" is Aristotle's term for the emotional release that occurs when viewing emotionally provocative art.

Fandom especially has made me rethink the necessity of uglier impulses of mankind as a motivator for art. A lot of fandom works exist as "fluff" --content that is purely emotionally positive and conflict-free-- and as "fix-it"-- literally creating a more positive outcome than is offered by canon.

Many fandom works, per comments and notes by their authors/creators, are created as a way of coping, processing, or dealing with the creator's own ongoing real-life challenges or negative past experiences. Like. How many author's notes are about "I should be doing [stressful real life thing] rn but instead I'm working on this fic." Or, "sorry for the delay, I just had [massive major personal misfortune] happen." Or, "sorry if this is triggering to anyone, I'm trying to use these characters to work through [negative past experience]."

I see these varieties of author's notes as demonstration that the act of creating fandom works is positive. The art they create doesn't need to have content that explores the hardest parts of being human in order to help them and their readers deal with the hardest parts of being human. Lots of people write fictional fandom "fluff " to deal with having a hard time in real life, and that's awesome.

But lots of people also create content about the ugliest impulses of mankind ("Major Archive Warnings Apply") in order to deal with the hardest parts of being human, and that's also awesome.

For many people, creating art or fandom about the worst things that can happen to people, or the worst things people can do to each other, is the most positive option for exploring these possibilities... or for dealing with them.

The interactive aspect of posting fandom works can be especially valuable, helpful, positive, and often therapeutic, especially with works where the content focuses on an uglier impulse of mankind, or a harder part of being human. For example, the main AO3 warnings, "major character death", "underage", "rape/noncon", and "graphic violence" are experiences that, when they occur to real people or their loved ones in real life outside of fiction or fandom contexts, can be extremely isolating. The acts of creating art about these topics and sharing it with others help to combat that isolation for people who have actually experienced these things, had proximity to these things... or simply have to deal with the fact that these things happen to others in the world, and the possibility that these things could happen to anyone, including them.

Sharing depictions of these experiences with others, even if those depictions are purely through art/fiction/fandom and not coming from firsthand experience, can help make these experiences feel less isolating for people who do have firsthand experiences with them.

Even if use of these tough topics are just to explore storytelling around the major archive warnings ("major character death", "underage", "rape/noncon", and "graphic violence"), that's still probably the safest way, for the author and for the rest of society, to get to explore these ideas.

Or, for the sake of argument, let's say somebody is writing stories about death and violence and SA out of a genuine interest or proclivity towards these things: wouldn't you rather they were writing stories about it than out in the world doing it?

If creating art about really vicious, cruel, awful actions can help the artist explore the possibilities or outcomes and achieve the catharsis they seek in those actions without actually having to do any of those things, wouldn't we prefer they keep making art?

Especially if being able to create art and post it in a socially interactive way lets them use their more problematic impulses as a way to engage with other human beings? Nothing fosters compassion like having to actually interact with others. Especially in the context of a shared interest like fandom, where they have common ground with their audience and might be inclined to feel kinship, commonality, or empathy with the others they interact with in fandom contexts.

You know how the uglier impulses of mankind turn into the uglier actions of mankind? When those impulses are kept in isolation, without context, perspective, or feedback from others. When the person experiencing those impulses lacks the social engagement to develop compassion for others that might discourage them from acting harmfully. When those impulses have no outlet where they can be explored without coming to fruition in actuality.

Writers killing their fictional characters and artists depicting murders can help save real lives. Experiencing catharsis through art and fandom can help people deal with the worst aspects of reality.

The author who has to apply all the major archive warnings didn't do all the major archives warnings; the author chose to write. They chose to create art about the ugliest parts of the human experience and share that art with others, and that's really rather beautiful of them.

And also a hell of a lot better than pretty much any other outcome where murder is involved.

Keep sharing your work. Keep the catharsis and compassion coming. Keep making this world better in the act of creating other worlds.

Fandom saves.

[that1emowitch]

Fire #7 (Jason Todd & Child!OC)

Summary:

One whole chapter dedicated to comfort, Jason finally realises that maybe, just maybe, he's not alone. ALSO JAYROY.

Rating: Teen & Up Audiences (there might be some swears and graphic descriptions of violence)

Word Count: 5915

A/N:

I got kinda carried away while writing this and ended up writing 6000 words instead of 3000 but~~ THE MORE THE MERRIER

Chapter 7: Family

"Please, Jason… I can't lose you like this." Roy’s words hung heavy in the air, carrying with them all the unsaid feelings he had held close for so long. "Man, there's so much I haven't told you. I need you to wake up... I need to tell you how much I love you."

A choked sob caught in his throat as the weight of his emotions became too much to bear. Tear-filled eyes remained fixed on Jason's still form, as if willing his friend to hear, to respond. "I love you so much, Jay... Please..."

The truth hung in the air, his admission raw and unfiltered. He wasn't sure if Jason could hear him, but he needed to say it, to let the words out into the universe. In the midst of his despair, Roy's grip on Jason's hand tightened even further, a physical manifestation of his anguish, of his plea for life to return to his beloved.

Suddenly, Roy felt his hand being squeezed back. His head snapped up as he rushed even closer to the bed. “Jason?”

“R—Roy?” Jason’s voice was scratchy and weak as his eyes struggled to focus on the redhead in front of him. “You—”

A flood of emotions surged within Roy as he leaned in, his gaze fixed on Jason's struggling form. The sight before him felt miraculous, a confirmation that his words had reached through the void. His heart overflowed with relief, love, and a yearning for the return of the man who had become an irreplaceable part of his life. "Jason," he breathed, his voice filled with emotion.

Jason's voice, though weak and raspy, was a lifeline. “You—”

Before he could finish, Roy enveloped him in a gentle hug, mindful of the injuries that marred Jason's body. "Jay…" His voice quivered with emotion, a mixture of relief and profound tenderness.

In the midst of his vulnerability, Jason's plea resonated with an underlying need. “C—Can you say it again…” His words held a hint of uncertainty, a vulnerable yearning for reassurance. He thought Roy had said it… Or maybe my stupid mind just made it up…

A rush of warmth flooded Roy's heart as he met Jason's gaze, realising that Jason had heard his confession. He hasn’t pushed me away yet. Tears welled in his eyes, a mixture of emotions dancing within them. “Jason, I love you…”

Jason's defences crumbled, tears escaping his eyes as he allowed his emotions to surface. His own vulnerability echoed Roy's, a shared moment of catharsis. “I— Y—” His voice faltered, the weight of his emotions proving difficult to articulate. Why would he love me? I’m just a fucking mess…

Roy's tender touch against Jason's cheek drew a shaky breath from him. “Jay, baby, I love you so much… Please, for fuck’s sake, don’t do something like that again, okay? You scared me… I thought I’d lose you…”

The walls around Jason's heart finally gave way, and he sobbed, releasing the pent-up pain and fear that had plagued him. Roy gently pulled him into his lap, caressing his face, letting him know it was okay to cry. Jason buried his face into his best friend’s neck. Best friend. That’s all I’ll ever be to him, won’t I?

A sudden impulse surged through Jason, compelling him to lift his head, his gaze locking onto Roy's captivating green eyes. Without overthinking, he pressed his lips against Roy's in a kiss that was both tender and passionate. He drank in the taste of his beloved's lips, each sensation an intoxicating rush that momentarily pushed away his worries. Roy's response, the reciprocation of the kiss, sent an electric jolt through him, flooding his senses with euphoria, a moment of pure and undiluted happiness.

But as swiftly as it began, the kiss was interrupted as Roy pulled away, leaving Jason disoriented and craving more. "What—" The confusion in Roy's voice matched the tumult of emotions that swirled in his eyes, reflecting a mix of surprise, curiosity, and perhaps a hint of something more.

Jason's heart raced, his cheeks flushing as he struggled to find the words to explain his actions. He wasn't used to acting on impulse, especially when it came to matters of the heart. His mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. Tears threatened to spill again. "I— I'm so sorry— I didn't—"

“You still like me?” Roy's piercing question cut through Jason's stammering, the raw vulnerability in the redhead's voice hitting him with the force of a punch. 

The question hung in the air, the weight of their history colouring every word. It was a question that held years of unspoken conversations, of buried emotions, and heartaches. Jason swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry, as he met Roy's gaze head-on.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself, the turmoil within him giving way to the truth he had always known but never quite said aloud. "Roy, you know it's more than just 'like', right?" His voice trembled slightly, every syllable carrying the weight of his feelings. "I've never stopped loving you."

Roy's eyes widened, his surprise evident, and Jason hurried to elaborate. "I know we agreed to stay best friends after what happened between us, and I respect that. But that doesn't mean those feelings vanished. I just— I felt like I couldn’t compare to Jade Nguyen… I knew you still loved her… I mean, she’s Lian’s mom, why wouldn’t you? I…" He trailed off, a mixture of emotions swirling in his eyes. "It hurt, Roy. It hurt more than I thought it would."

A conflicted expression clouded Roy's features, his emotions evident as he tried to process Jason's words. "Jason," he began, his voice laden with sincerity. "Why didn’t you tell me before? I didn't... I didn't mean for you to get hurt. My relationship and my feelings for Jade faded long before we even considered being together."

Jason looked down, his heart aching as he felt the surge of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. "I know that now," he whispered, his voice heavy with regret. "But back then... I felt like I was just your rebound, like I was disposable."

Roy's fingers reached out, gently tilting Jason's chin to meet his gaze. "You were never disposable, Jay." His voice held an earnestness that resonated deeply with Jason. "And I'm sorry for making you feel that way."

“It— It’s not just that…” Jason looked away, his gaze fixed on a distant point as he struggled to articulate the turmoil that had been brewing inside him. "I can't be what you need, Roy. I'm broken, and I've got all these scars, both inside and out." He could feel the painful lump forming in his throat, the words coming out in a rush. "And with the Pit and all… I can't risk hurting you, using you as a way to fix myself."

Roy's expression shifted from confusion to realisation, and Jason felt a pang in his chest at the understanding in Roy's eyes. "But I need you," Roy said softly, his voice laced with a mix of sadness and empathy.

Jason nodded, his throat tight as he struggled to hold back the emotions threatening to spill over. "Me too. But I can't do that to you, Roy. I—I can't let you be dragged into my mess. You keep having to do so much for me, I don’t deserve that…"

Roy's hand gently cupped Jason's chin, guiding his gaze back to him. "Jason, listen to me," he said, his voice unwavering. "You're not worthless, and you're certainly not a rebound." His thumb brushed against Jason's cheek, his touch tender. "You're the person I care about, the person I love. And I don't care about your scars or your past. I care about you, for who you are. We’re both complete messes, but we can help each other get better."

Tears welled up in Jason's eyes, and he felt a mixture of relief and fear coursing through him. "I'm just scared, Roy," he admitted, his voice cracking. "Scared of hurting you, of letting you down."

Roy's fingers wiped away a tear that had escaped Jason's eye. "Jason, we all have our fears, our insecurities. But that doesn't mean we let them define us or dictate our actions."

Jason swallowed hard, the emotions he had suppressed for so long finally breaking free. "I love you, Roy. That's why I can't do this, why I can't let myself drag you into my mess."

Roy's eyes softened, his gaze unwavering. "And I love you, Jason. Your scars, your past, they're a part of you, but they're not all of you. We face things together, Jay. That's what love is about."

Jason felt a glimmer of hope amidst the turmoil inside him. "So, you're saying... you're willing to face my mess with me?"

Roy smiled, his fingers tracing a gentle path on Jason's cheek. "I'm saying I'm willing to face anything with you, Jay."

A small smile found its way to Jason’s face. “When did you get so wise, Harper?”

A chuckle slipped through Roy’s lips, a mixture of amusement and affection evident in his eyes. “You broke up with me because you thought I didn’t actually like you, then proceeded to say we’d be better off as best friends… bro, you literally friendzoned yourself!”

Jason's lips curved into a playful grin, his gaze holding a hint of mischief. But then, without warning, he closed the gap between them and kissed Roy fiercely, a surge of newfound confidence coursing through him. It was a kiss filled with desire, a silent proclamation of emotions that had been suppressed for far too long. As he pulled away, he brushed his lips against Roy’s jaw, his eyes darkened, lust-blown with longing. “I’m not your bro.”

Roy's smirk grew wider, his heart racing as Jason's actions sent sparks of electricity through his veins. He relished in the sensation of Jason's gentle nibbles along his jawline, their closeness igniting a fiery passion between them. The intensity of their connection was undeniable, and he found himself lost in the moment, entwined with the man he had always cared for so deeply.

However, the spell was abruptly broken by an unexpected interruption. A voice pierced through the charged atmosphere, shattering their intimate cocoon and bringing them back to reality.

"Uh, if you two are done, could you come upstairs for a bit?" Tim's voice sounded from the doorway of the med bay, his tone a mix of amusement and exasperation. He cast a pointed glance at Jason's bandaged torso before adding, "And maybe wear a shirt. Nile doesn’t need to see her dad being hurt."

Roy's eyes shifted from Jason to Tim, his expression transforming to surprise. He arched an eyebrow, a silent question in his gaze. Jason's eyes widened in realisation, the truth hitting him that he hadn't yet informed Roy about adopting Nile. 

"Right, uh— See, I was going to tell you, but then all this happened, and—" He stopped himself before he rambled on too long and gathered his breath. “I found a little girl, she was all alone with no one to care for her, and she’d somehow got caught up in a meta-children trafficking business, so I adopted her so no one could hurt her again.”

A chuckle escaped Roy's lips as he gently touched Jason's cheek, his tone affectionate. "Guess we've got more than a few things to catch up on. God, we really need to work on communication."

Jason nodded, a soft smile gracing his features. "Yeah, I guess so."

Tim ascended the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the quiet of the house, leading him to Cass's room, where she and Steph sat playing with Nile. The little angel had immediately taken a liking to Cass, and had warmed up to Steph in just minutes. That wasn’t very hard, both of them were some of the most awesome people he knew, his big sister and his best friend. Plus, Nile seemed to be a glowing ball of sunshine with never-ending love to share with the world. He couldn't help but smile as he observed the trio reading a colourful picture book together.

The faint rustling behind him signalled the arrival of Jason and Roy. Tim's senses sharpened, a remnant of wariness still lingering from their past encounters. Although it’d been two years since Jason last tried to kill him, the unease hadn't entirely dissipated, even with the progress they had made.

Shrugging off the hesitation, Tim entered the room, making way for Jason and Roy to follow. He noted the subtle shifts in their dynamic; their connection seemed more profound, their emotions more openly displayed. Everyone knew they loved each other before, but now… it felt like they knew it too. I’m glad Jason found someone, even though it happens to be Dick’s ex. It was like him and Kon. He’d been such a mess before Kon came into his life. To be fair, I’m still a mess, but now we have each other.

As Jason stepped into the room, his body tensed involuntarily. The collective gaze of his companions, a mixture of concern and empathy, fixed upon him, their worry like an unspoken weight in the air. His instinctual response was to meet their gaze with a flash of anger, a protective barrier against the sympathy he perceived. They don’t need to feel sorry for me. He didn't want anyone's pity. Not now, not ever.

"Nile," his voice emerged firm and commanding, a directive that held an undercurrent of frustration. He needed to take control of the situation, to seize a semblance of autonomy amidst the chaos of his emotions. "We need to go." His gaze flickered to the young girl, who looked at him with big, innocent eyes. He didn't want her to witness his vulnerability, his moments of weakness. "We won't be any more trouble," he added, a hint of defiance colouring his words.

The room seemed to hold its breath for a moment, the tension palpable. Jason's stance was resolute, his body language a shield against the well-intentioned concern that surrounded him. He couldn't let them see him like this, couldn't bear their well-meaning but suffocating expressions.

Cass launched herself into Jason's arms, her petite form wrapping around him in a warm, affectionate embrace. Her presence felt like a sudden burst of light in the midst of his emotional turmoil. His gaze fell to her, his little sister, the one who had managed to find her place in his fractured world. Her eyes, so expressive despite her silence, fixed on his heart as she pointed to it with a sense of clarity. Her wordless declaration resonated deeply within him.

"Brother," she stated, pointing to him. "We love you," her message was short but crystal clear. Her sincerity radiated from her, a beacon of pure affection that cut through the layers of doubt and walls he had built. It was a simple affirmation, yet it bore immense weight, the weight of family, of acceptance, of belonging.

When he’d made peace with the Bats, all of them had still been extremely wary around him. I don’t blame them, honestly. But Cass… she’d always accepted him as he was. She was the only one he knew he could trust. She only likes me because she never actually saw how fucked up I am.

Jason's initial stiffness began to melt away, replaced by a hesitant but genuine response. He raised his arms, his embrace enveloping Cass in a protective cocoon. The emotions that swelled within him were almost overwhelming, a mixture of surprise, vulnerability, and a growing sense of warmth.

He wanted this. He wanted to be part of their family so bad. But some part of him just wouldn’t let him accept this. Torn between the yearning to belong and the harsh grip of his self-imposed isolation, a tempest of emotions raged within Jason's heart. His mind was a battlefield of doubt, uncertainty, and the haunting ghosts of his own mistakes.

The warmth of Cass's embrace juxtaposed against the cold walls he had built around himself. He felt the tug of her affection, a longing to surrender to the familial connection she offered, to embrace the love he so deeply desired. 

But there was a stubborn resistance, a lingering belief that his presence would only bring chaos, pain, and more scars. I’d only end up hurting everyone around me. He couldn’t risk any more people getting trauma because of his stupid Pit Terrors. He blinked back hot tears, desperate to keep up his tough exterior. He swallowed the lump in his throat, choking back the turmoil threatening to overcome him.

Blinking rapidly, he tried to quell the burning tears that welled in his eyes, refusing to let them fall. He had spent years honing his facade, crafting an image of defiance and strength, and he wasn't about to let it crumble now. The dichotomy of his inner battle played across his features, a storm of emotions flickering across his face as he struggled to maintain control. Why am I getting so emotional all of a sudden? This never used to happen before…

His gaze shifted, drawn to the scene before him. Nile, his precious daughter, laughed and played with his ‘siblings’. They surrounded her with a protective shield of camaraderie and affection. He felt a bittersweet pang in his chest, a mixture of longing and resignation.

She deserves better than me, he thought, his self-deprecation an old refrain that still echoed loudly. His vision started tinting green again. She’s better off with them… They can keep her safe… I— I’ll just end up hurting her like I hurt everyone else. 

"Jason," a familiar voice sliced through the whirlwind of his thoughts, jerking him back to the present. His connection with Cass loosened as he turned, eyes locking onto the figure in the doorway. Dick Grayson stood there, a mixture of concern and relief etched onto his features. Jason's breath caught in his throat, his heart doing a strange dance between anxiety and something he couldn't quite name.

Before he could react, Dick enveloped him in an embrace, wrapping his arms around Jason as if he could shield him from the storms that had been brewing inside. The hug was unexpected, an intrusion upon the walls Jason had so painstakingly erected. He stood stiffly, his body tense within Dick's embrace. "We were so worried!" Dick's voice was a mix of genuine concern and exasperation, a blend of emotions that left Jason grappling with his own response.

As the hug persisted, Jason's inner turmoil surged anew. He had become accustomed to isolation, to fending for himself, and this gesture felt alien, foreign in its vulnerability. He shifted slightly, his mind a tempest of conflicting emotions. The embrace was comforting yet uncomfortable, reminding him of the complexities of his relationships with this family he couldn't seem to extricate himself from.

With a sudden motion, he pulled away from Dick's hold, the abruptness a testament to his inner turmoil. His eyes bore into Dick's, a storm of emotions swirling within his gaze. Confusion, anger, and a hint of vulnerability mingled in the depths of his irises. "I don't need your sympathy, Dick," he retorted, his voice laced with defensiveness.

The hurt that flickered across Dick's expression was palpable. Jason watched as his words landed, the impact stark in the wounded look that clouded Dick's eyes. He immediately regretted his harsh tone, the sharpness of his words. The reality of the situation hung heavily between them, an unspoken history laden with pain and longing. Wait, why do I feel sorry? He’s treated me this way for years!

The room seemed to hold its breath as the silence lingered, the tension between them almost tangible. And then, Dick's lips twitched into a wry smile, a glint of mischief and hurt mingling in his gaze. "Well, you didn't have to say 'Dick' in that way," he countered, his voice tinged with a mix of humour and self-deprecation.

"We were actually worried, you know?" Tim's voice carried a quiet sincerity, a testament to the genuine concern that had been lingering in the air. He approached Jason with a softness that stood in stark contrast to the usual brashness the young man exhibited. "Look, we get it. You're hurting. Just let us help!"

Jason's steely gaze met Tim's, an unspoken challenge evident in his stance. He clung to the armour of his façade, as if it were the only thing keeping him tethered to some semblance of control. But a voice, a relentless whisper in the back of his mind, insisted otherwise.

Lies, it hissed, each word a sharp reminder of his doubts and insecurities. They're just being nice. None of them actually want you here.

His glare remained unwavering, a defence mechanism that had served him well over the years. He didn't want their pity, their sympathy. He didn't need it. He grunted dismissively, his gaze shifting to his daughter, Nile, who had been caught in the crossfire of his inner battle. "C'mon, Nile. Let's go," he urged, his tone carrying an undercurrent of urgency.

Nile's innocent gaze met his, those wide eyes filled with both curiosity and a hint of disappointment. "But Jayyy, I wanna play with Auntie Cassie!" she protested, her voice a chorus of puppy-like enthusiasm.

"We're leaving, now," he responded, the sharpness of his words betraying his inner turmoil. The faint edges of his vision seemed to ripple with a green tinge, a reminder of the unsettling chaos that often accompanied his emotions.

Yet, just as he moved to lead Nile away, a soft, gentle voice cut through the haze of his thoughts, pulling him back from the brink. "Jay, baby…" Roy's voice was a soothing balm, a whisper that echoed with care and understanding. A warm hand settled onto his back, the touch grounding him in the midst of his inner tempest. "Let's stay here for a while? Nile seems to like it here, and I wanna get to know her better…"

Jason's resolve wavered as Roy's touch and words worked their way through his defences. His glare softened, replaced by a conflicted expression. Roy's steadfast presence was like a lifeline, a reminder that not everything was as black and white as he often perceived it to be. "We can go to my apartment. You can talk there," he countered, his voice a mixture of stubbornness and vulnerability.

Roy's next words, gentle yet laden with an underlying plea, struck a chord within him. "Please, Jaybird… For me?" The redhead's eyes held a vulnerability of their own, a silent plea that bypassed the walls Jason had built around himself.

A resigned huff escaped Jason's lips as he felt the layers of his resistance slowly giving way. He couldn't resist that adorable look, those puppy eyes that held a power over him like nothing else. "Fine," he conceded, a hint of reluctant affection in his voice. He met Roy's gaze, allowing himself to linger in that gaze for a moment longer before turning his attention back to Nile. "We'll stay for one day."

As Jason's words hung in the air, he couldn't help but notice the way the room seemed to brighten, as if his simple declaration had ignited a spark of joy in each person present. He watched the array of expressions on their faces, each a testament to their genuine happiness. A flicker of wonder crept into his mind. Why are they so happy? Could it be… because they actually wanted me to stay?

But like an unwelcome shadow, the voice, that relentless whisper of doubt and fear, resurfaced with its familiar poison. Of course they didn't, it hissed with a venomous edge. They're just glad you didn't take the girl away from them. It was a reminder that his past experiences had ingrained in him — a scepticism that had become a defence mechanism.

Yet, this time, an unexpected shift occurred within him. An almost stubborn determination bloomed, and he pushed back against that voice with all his might. He silenced it, refusing to let it dampen this fragile moment of connection. For the first time in days, he shut out the voice, as fast and as firmly as he could. He consciously ignored its persistent whisper, choosing to grasp onto the possibilities that were unfolding before him.

Call him selfish, but he found himself yearning for this warmth, for this sense of belonging that he had kept at arm's length for so long. The tenderness in their eyes, the genuine concern they had shown him, it had managed to chip away at the walls he had built. For now, he wanted to bask in this newfound camaraderie, to allow himself to believe, if only for a moment, that he could be a part of something more, that he was deserving of their care.

"Yay!" Dick's joyful squeal echoed through the room, his excitement contagious. "Roy and Nile can stay with you in your own room if you want. I think Alfie's making lasagna tonight! We can have a family bonding night, make pillow forts, and—"

Tim's pragmatic interruption cut through the exuberance. "Woah. We still need to investigate about—" He lowered his voice, ensuring Nile couldn't overhear. "—Falcone."

Jason's eyebrows shot up, a mix of surprise and concern flickering across his features. "Wait, what?"

Dick stepped in to provide the necessary context. "Someone hired Falcone to find her."

That information hit Jason like a punch to the gut, a visceral reaction that ignited a blaze of anger deep within him. It must be the work of that Ma’am that Nile was so scared of. The mere thought of someone attempting to hurt the innocent child he had grown to love fueled a potent fury within him, so intense it nearly overshadowed his surroundings.

As his fists clenched at his sides, he felt the urge to lash out, to seek retribution for the harm done to Nile, to himself, and to all those who had been put in harm's way. He could feel the Pit’s presence growing stronger in the back of his mind. 

“I’m hunting that bastard down,” Jason decided, turning to leave.

"No," Cass's soft voice interjected, her gesture towards his bandaged torso speaking volumes. "Hurt. We'll go."

His frustrated exhale mingled with a reluctant nod, acknowledging her wisdom. He turned his gaze to Nile, whose innocent eyes held both uncertainty and trust. He would protect her, no matter what. As his anger simmered, he found a renewed determination. The promise he mentally made to his daughter was a vow etched in his heart. "I won't let them hurt you, Nile," he affirmed silently, his fierce devotion lending strength to his resolve.

Jason tenderly lifted his daughter into his arms, her cheerful voice ringing out with a heartwarming "HI JAY!" The sound ignited a warmth deep within him, but he masked it with a quiet response, not wanting to reveal the extent of his emotions in front of the Bats. With a half-smile, he nodded a goodbye to Cass and his 'brothers' before leading the way to his old room, signalling for Roy to follow.

As the door closed behind them, a tangible sense of relief settled over Jason, his tense shoulders finally finding some respite. With a gentle nuzzle, he let his affection for Nile shine through, then carefully set her down on the bed. Roy joined them, taking a seat beside Jason and the little girl. Nile's inquisitive gaze met Roy's uncertain one, and a silent exchange of curiosity passed between them.

"Um, right," Jason began, a hint of nervousness in his voice. "Nile, this is my—uh—boyfriend, Roy. Babe, this is Nile."

Roy offered a somewhat awkward wave, a small smile gracing his features. Nile's bright eyes widened with understanding, and then she beamed a smile back at Roy. "HI ROY!"

With enthusiasm, she clambered onto Roy's lap, and he helped her up with a careful hand. Her innocent question hung in the air, pulling a soft chuckle from both adults. "What's a boyfriend?" she asked, her curiosity prompting a shared glance between the two men.

"Ah, well," Roy started, his fingers idly brushing a strand of Nile's hair behind her ear. "A boyfriend is like a really good friend, but someone you care about a whole lot more. Someone you like spending time with and doing fun things together."

Nile's eyes sparkled with interest as she processed Roy's explanation. "Like when Jay and I go to the ice cream?" she asked, her gaze shifting between the two men.

Jason nodded, a soft smile on his lips. "Ice cream shop. But exactly, sweetheart. It's like having a special person you want to share your adventures and happy moments with."

Roy chimed in with a grin. "And also someone who will be there to help and support you whenever you need it."

Nile's face lit up. "Like when Jay helps me tie my shoes?"

"That's right," Roy confirmed with a warm smile. "Just like that."

The room seemed to fill with a sense of ease as the three of them sat together on the bed, the concept of a 'boyfriend' being gently explained to the young girl. For Jason, watching the interaction between Roy and Nile brought a swell of warmth to his chest. It was a moment he hadn't imagined himself having, not so long ago when he had been drowning in his own troubles.

He really is my boyfriend again. For real this time. I just need to make sure I don’t fuck this up again.

Jason's eyes shifted to the clock on the nightstand, the red digits glaring back at him. “Holy—” he began, only to catch himself before uttering a swear word in front of Nile. “It’s 3 in the morning! You should be asleep by now!”

Nile's adorable pout was accompanied by a whine. “But I don’t wanna!”

Jason paused, thinking of how to get her to sleep without making a fuss. He didn’t want to speak too harshly and risk triggering any trauma she had from her time with her kidnappers.  He searched for the right words, a delicate balance between firmness and understanding. “Nile, sweetheart, it's really important to get enough sleep. We have a big day tomorrow, and you need to be well-rested.”

Just as he was mentally preparing for a potential standoff, Roy intervened with his characteristic charm. “Hey, how about this?” he proposed, his voice warm and inviting. “I'll read you a bedtime story, and then Jay-Jay here can sing you your favourite song. Trust me, he's got an amazing voice.”

Nile's young mind seemed to process this proposal carefully, a hint of intrigue in her eyes. “Okay!” she exclaimed, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm.

With a soft smile, Roy retrieved a picture book from Cass’s room and began to read, his voice melodic and soothing. Jason watched with a mixture of amusement and affection as Nile's eyelids drooped, her small body gradually succumbing to sleep.

As the story concluded and Roy gently closed the book, the room seemed to sigh into a tranquil hush, the stillness broken only by Nile's soft breathing. Jason's gaze shifted from Nile to Roy, the gratitude he felt for this man weighing heavy on his heart.

Breaking the comfortable silence, Jason ventured, “You must have quite a bit of experience with this kind of thing, huh?”

Roy chuckled softly. “Yeah, Lian can be quite a handful sometimes.”

The mention of Roy's daughter brought a momentary shadow to Jason's features. “You left her alone to come help me… You shouldn’t have to do that.”

Roy's brow furrowed, his expression sincere. “Baby, I love you. I'll always be here for you, no matter what. And don't worry about Lian; Dinah's looking after her right now."

In that moment, Jason felt a tangle of emotions. He nodded, his gaze softening. "I know you will be. Thanks, Roy."

Roy's smile held the promise of unwavering support. "Anytime, Jaybird."

Jason's heart ached with a mix of gratitude and guilt, a swirling blend of emotions that had become all too familiar. His fingers absentmindedly stroked Nile's hair as he gazed down at her peaceful face, his mind racing with thoughts that had plagued him for days. Jason's gaze met Roy's, a mixture of feelings passing between them. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he wanted to convey, but the stupid voices in his head kept holding him back.

Roy's gentle smile seemed to understand all the unspoken words. "You're doing great with her, you know," he whispered, his fingers tracing Nile's tiny hand.

A bittersweet smile tugged at Jason's lips. "I'm trying. But I'm still figuring things out."

"That's okay," Roy reassured him, his voice filled with warmth. "You don't have to do it alone."

Jason's throat tightened, and he nodded, unable to find the words to express the gratitude he felt. His gaze returned to Nile, watching her sleep peacefully, a feeling of protectiveness settling over him. He wasn't sure what the future held, but in that moment, surrounded by the people who cared about him, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he could find some semblance of peace and happiness once again.

Roy shifted closer to Jason, his heart racing in his chest. He had rehearsed these words countless times in his head, but now that he was actually facing Jason, his confidence wavered. He had to remind himself: be honest, be sincere. This was Jason, the man he loved, and he needed to express his feelings. It’s now or never. Don’t fuck it up.

With a deep breath, he reached out and took Jason's hand, fingers intertwining. “Look, Jay, there’s… there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you for a long time…”

Jason's curious eyes met Roy's emerald green gaze, and in that moment, Roy felt a rush of reassurance. He pressed on, his voice steady despite the fluttering in his chest. “I—” He stumbled over his words, the weight of vulnerability heavy in the air. “Do— Do you wanna move in together?”

The silence that followed seemed to stretch, hanging between them like an unspoken question. Roy's anxiety crept higher, gnawing at his confidence. The seconds dragged on, each one a heartbeat that echoed loudly in his ears.

“Like—” Roy's voice rushed out, his words tumbling over each other as he tried to articulate his thoughts. “Maybe— We could rent a house— like— somewhere in between Gotham and Star City— and— uh— Lian and Nile could grow up together— with us—”

Before he could finish his sentence, Jason's lips were on his, gentle and soft. The kiss caught Roy by surprise, but he quickly melted into it, feeling the warmth of Jason's affection, the answer he had been hoping for.

Breaking the kiss, Jason's voice was a quiet affirmation, a whisper of acceptance that held a world of emotions. “Of course,” he breathed, his eyes reflecting his surprise and something more. "I've never wanted anything more."

The weight of those words hung in the air, a declaration of commitment and love. Roy's heart swelled with gratitude, and he brushed his thumb over the back of Jason's hand. "I'm so lucky to have you, Jay."

Jason's lips curled into a small, genuine smile. “I'm the lucky one," he murmured, his eyes locked onto Roy's. What did I do to deserve you?

A/N

finally some comfort, for my sanity and yours.

[piratesexmachine420]

The problem with r/TwoSentenceHorror is that from its basal conceit it just isn't possible--you can't tell a story in two sentences. You especially can't tell a horror story in two sentences--horror needs time to set up the cycle(s) of tension and release, to get the reader invested and then worried. You can't do that with a single sentence, and you can't pay it off with a single sentence either. "Things are gonna go bad! Things went bad!" where's the catharsis. There is none.

So you get these multi-clause run-on abominations that desperately try to claw some kind of stakes out of the format, and fail; and then middle school-tier "makes you think" or "wow this line goes so hard, bro" conclusions that desperately try to claw some kind of approval from the reader, and fail.

These aren't stories, and they aren't really even horror. They're substanceless shouts into the void to please, please recognize that I'm Very Witty And Clever for saying one thing and then adding additional details that recontextualize that previous thing! I'm so good at recontextualizing please guys I spent so long time coming up with "what if your mom was Evil! >:)" or "what if a family had a pet but it was Dead and Gross! >:)" or "what if sex but it was Murder! >:)" or whatever please give me upvotes and comments and remember me and remember me and remember me and remember me

But no one does. Because you haven't really said anything at all. Try again.

[originemesis]

@deathinfeathers xxx

"Are you going to keep rubbing that shit in my face for the rest of our brimstone besprinkled lives? I wasn't hunting you down! You were dead!! I was hunting down the bitch who I assumed was wearing your GODDAMNED GRUB EATEN SKIN!!" It sounds significantly more deranged when you say it out loud, doesn't it? But it seemed reasonable enough of an assumption at the time. More reasonable than the notion that he'd survived the pygmy slut's assault and crawled off to suck on some flat-faced degenerate plutocrat in a shitty suit anyhow. "And for your information--" There she goes, swinging her legs over the lip of the sill she'd been riveted to for the past five hours and taking to her feet. An accusatory finger is jabbed in his direction like the business end of a blessed spear. She presses onwards. "--he was actually pretty torn up about the whole ordeal!" Torn up about how torn up she was, rather, but torn up all the same. Of course that had changed when the true extent of his dirty dealings had come to light...at this point in time she wouldn't put it past Michael to do a little celebratory jig if he did manage to relieve Adam of his head. God, his fatalistic frame of mind is infuriating. She wants to fight, make no mistake about that. She wants the catharsis that always accompanies a good ol' noisy squabble, it never lasts but it feels good in the moment; a release. But she wants to feel bad afterwards, because she was unduly cruel, maybe stew in it for an hour or two before the compulsion to apologize takes the reigns and she drags her feet over to do just that. Apoligize. And when she has said her sorries, and he has said his, then she wants everything to be alright again. To bid adieu to another shitty ass day, crawl under the sheets and fall asleep to the smell of his skin, the sound of his breathing, the feeling of his warmth seeping into her flesh... She wants to fight—but it's all so exhausting. That scornful digit falls from the air to hang limply at her side like a popped balloon, before she has a chance to prod at his chest with it. "Adam—" A breath squeezed through pinched lips, she turns to hunch over the kitchen counter, elbows on the edge, head planted firmly in the cradle of her palms. "—can you please—please try to work with me here. Or, alternatively, tell me to fuck off if that's what you'd prefer...to go back to whatever life and identity you've carved out for yourself here? I will. I'll leave you be if you tell me to...I'll handle Michael, he's not going to be a persistent hurdle to you...but I need to hear you say it...if you don't want me around i need you to tell me—right now."

"I JUST SO HAPPENED TO BE 'THAT BITCH'- in case you forgot!? Like shit, Lute! I mean, I appreciate the sentiment and all, but you really couldn't recognize me? MY helmet at least stayed the fucking same!" Unlike hers...her whole being, really. He's still not sure what sorts of angel steroids that Sera could have sprinkled her with, but the evidence of a promotion that never was supposed to come to pass under his leadership was evident even now without all the frills of a uniform in place. Granted, he was never supposed to end up face first in a used condom filled ditch in hell either, so maybe she was on to something... grotesque as she had to put it- like always.

Sending a still sore about it scowl over towards her perch, it's with a lesson learned back pivot that he slides the hulking weight of his frame back onto a heel as she jabs at him. Her angelic weapon might not be out for another branding round, but he'd had enough of an encounter with it skinning the neck flap of his helmet that even the gesture of a spear had his remaining feathers fluffed in alarm. "Please- it's not like you're obligated to pat my ass down here. We both know he could give zero fucks with that mic-ropenis of his." No, he wasn't against making Mic-centric jokes still. If anything, they helped smooth his feathers down as he paced the length of the apartment under her unrelenting gaze. Considering he's all she has left now up behind the big, pearly-gates, the late Commander's not sure she'll share in his cathartic name calling, but it can't hurt that its brought his voice down a couple of octaves and the weight of his gaze light enough to swivel up under heavy lashes to listlessly consider her next round of tumultuous tweets.

"Babe—?"

He huffs back before she can project more of what he can only assume is more of her frustrations with the situation-... with him. Her complaints don't fall on deaf ears, though the hints of hell-grown feathers near where the tufts of his hair and the tops of his lobes meet flare backwards as if to cover them or at least filter the tone of her request until it convinced him to ride the long, hissing exhale of his lungs to a patch of level ground between them- mainly the counter top. Tucking in beside her, he propped his chin up on a palm and a fanned set of talons while the golden pinpricks in his toasted gaze swiveled sideways to regard her the way an entirely too tired cat might observe a bird through a bay window. "I didn't carve shit, y'know? I never wanted you to have to be around me like...well-" Gaze dropping to study the curves of the set of claws he rested upon the counter in front of him, he curled their tips under the harmless ends of hell-charred knuckles and sighed. "-like this...zero dick energy disaster." A light shuffle of his weight from one shoulder to the one closest to her indicated he still felt some magnetism to her despite the shame-riddled sentiment. "But that never changed the fact that I needed you...that I don't know how to even be without you. All this life you say I carved? Was just me clawing the fuck out of everything just to keep my head above the surface of this complete and utter shit show!"

With a dropped sigh, he scooted the balled up fist over to where she'd tucked her head. A light press of knuckles against the side of her cheek coaxed another cautious rumble out of his chest. "You gotta understand- I been through this before. Always falling short of what they wanted...expected. Ending up alone. I can't handle it again- not with you. Because unlike my previous 'tasks' from heaven, I actually chose this. I chose YOU...so I can't be here when you decide this-" A soft grunt aimed down at himself and the flick of a tail as it coiled around his calf signaled his unease, but he shook at it like a wet dog. "-was never what you wanted in the end."

With a shift, he swiveled on the barstool to face inwards, cheek still propped precariously in his palm as he addressed her with a strained frown, lips a twitch from parting into a puff. "Because I-...fucking hell, Lute..." Thoughts of her perched in his lap with clumsy fingers lingering over the notes on an old bass he'd insisted on showing her coaxed the lightest quirk to the corner of his mouth, his eyes flashing with the sentiment his lips seemed hung on.

I fucking love you. "...don't leave."

[fyeahdpr-live]

hiphopkr Instagram Post May 28, 2025

Inside senseS: Dabin cuts clean from convention

Albums, Interviews

Hong Dabin (@dabin.kr) isn’t chasing polish. He’s chasing tension, energy, and the quiet honesty that sits between form and instinct. His new EP [senseS] unpacks structure, strips melody, and leans into unresolved space.

We spoke with Dabin about how constraint became freedom, why he’s no longer designing for traction, and what it means to create without apology.

Head over to hiphopkr.com to read our exclusive interview with Dabin.

#DABIN #senseS #CTYL #HiphopKR

With senseS, Hong Dabin draws a firm line between what came before and where he stands now. The EP is stark, deliberate, and conceptually whole—built not for mass appeal but for those willing to sit in ambiguity. It abandons clean pop arcs for rough edges and gradient shifts, working more as a study in emotional texture than a conventional narrative.

Written and produced under his own imprint, CTYL, senseS is Dabin’s most structurally experimental release to date. The tracks are fragmented, layered, often dissonant—stripped of familiar scaffolding. As he puts it:

“senseS is the beginning of a new chapter. It’s not just about evolving sound, but about removing filters between me and the listener. I wanted to strip things down to emotion and instinct.”

He approached the project with less emphasis on control and more on trusting that honesty—however messy—would land where it needed to.

On lead single “.KR”, that shift is clearest. Co-produced with DAVIDIOR (Grammy-Nominated & RIAA Diamond Certified), it runs jagged, almost mechanical—equal parts commentary and catharsis. The lyrics cut plainly:

“예절은 빼 내 예술에서는 [etiquette’s out in my art] – who’s actually being creative right now?”

That line is a pivot: a challenge to the gatekeeping of innovation, particularly in Korea’s creative industries. It’s not wrapped in metaphor. It’s said flat.

The artwork for senseS mirrors the album’s core ideas rather than explaining them. Rendered in molten gradients and contour lines, it feels topographical and cellular—structured but fluid, suggestive rather than declarative. The symmetrical shapes resemble mitochondria or masked sensory organs, aligning with the project’s themes of internal energy and perception. Just like the music, the image refuses to anchor itself in a single meaning.

This lack of fixed resolution runs throughout the EP. Dabin let each track land where it felt most honest, whether that meant cutting them short or leaving them unresolved.

“I stop when it feels honest. Some tracks end abruptly or leave space because that’s what felt real in the moment. I’m not chasing polish anymore. I’m chasing tension, energy, and a sense that the emotion has been fully expressed, even if unconventionally.”

Cover art for senseS, the new EP by Dabin. Image courtesy of CTYL.

This release is a shift in posture, not just sound. Dabin isn’t abandoning rhythm but recontextualizing it. Earlier work often built narrative arcs across rap and melody. Here, those forms are abstracted. The song structures, transitions, and pacing all move against the grain of what’s optimized.

“Constraint actually freed me,” he says. “By putting rules on myself, like avoiding traditional structures or limiting certain tools… It made me more intentional with every sound and silence.”

The EP isn’t concerned with mass accessibility. Dabin made it with himself in mind, not an audience.

“I love my fans, and I hope they grow with me. But I couldn’t make this project for anyone else. This EP came from a place of needing to reset and redefine. If it resonates, it’ll be because it’s real, not because I tried to please.”

Tracklist

.KR

Saucer

Chemist

See Through

Irregular

Each track occupies its own logic. “Chemist” is volatile and layered, “Saucer” drifts in levitated rhythm, and “Irregular” closes with a code-like cadence—repeating sequences and fractured flows that sidestep conventional closure.

“‘See Through‘ made me realize I don’t need to over-explain or package things neatly. I could just feel and express. It gave me the confidence to be raw and trust the listener to meet me there.”

The writing process itself became a mirror of the emotional conditions that inspired it.

“There was a sense of longing and release. Longing to break through the noise and release from the need to control everything.”

That tension became an anchor. And as the project took shape, his relationship with music evolved:

“It’s become more personal, but also more playful. I’m not trying to prove anything anymore. I’m trying to feel something… Music feels like therapy again. Like play. Like purpose.”

The rollout mirrored this stripped-down approach. No grand announcements. A single tweet. A quiet drop. And still, the response was swift. Longtime fans praised the depth; newer listeners were drawn in by the sharp left turn. Some heard cohesion, others rupture. Both perspectives hold.Dabin Profile Photo. Image courtesy of CTYL.

senseS doesn’t overreach. It does exactly what it intends to do. In a moment where most artists calibrate for streams, Hong Dabin made something that resists framing. He’s not here to sell clarity. He’s making room for complexity—and trusting the listener to meet him there.

Follow Dabin

Instagram

YouTube

Spotify

X

[achronicwriter]

Sunday, December 1, 2024

Mercury Retrograde

New Moon

Sunrise 6:49 am; Mid-Day 11:22 am; Sunset 3:55 pm

High 39 ℉ Low 28 ℉; Cloudy, no snow yet

Morning

I wasn't able to fall asleep until 2:30 am, so I greeted the day at sunrise then went right back to sleep until 10:00. I woke up with leg cramps because I'd been catted into an awkward position.

Mid-Day

The weekly supply run to the soup kitchen (that we helped found in 2009) turned into a haul. Meats, premade sandwiches and chicken parm, pizza dough we don't have to drag out the Kitchen-Aid to make, bread, cornmeal, the usual canned goods and lunch meats, "real" hot dogs (as opposed to the Maine red snaps), and treats including two-bite pecan pies. I need to take inventory and do some rearranging and meal planning before grocery day.

Husband mixed the substrate that he's going to plant our first commercial batch of mushrooms in. First he had to sterilize everything in the vicinity with 70% Isopropyl and actually wear gloves. Starting a mushroom business in an apartment is sub-optimal to say the least but we won't be able to get more optimal conditions if we don't start in the sub-optimal.

I think our vacuum just went to the great utility closet in the sky. Of all the times!!! And now we have to re-arrange the budget to either fix or replace it. In the meantime I've got a mess to broom up.

❄It's snowing!!!❄

Evening

I started crying during meditation. I don't know what triggered the thought-spiral but I suddenly realized that I was hurt and angry for the last half of November. I'm normally maybe a little too self-aware so the realization -- and subsequent release of emotion -- hit me like a runaway train. I've honestly never liked Thanksgiving, and the more I learn about the reality behind it the less I like it. But I hadn't really thought about the personal associations of judgement, ostracization, mockery, family pressure, etc and their effects on me. This year I found some release from posting about the history from the Native American perspective (which even before my catharsis I realized was heavy-handed) but I wasn't dealing with my own issues.

Okay, Hekate. I hear you. I'll do the shadow work. Please, though, poke me before I alienate my friendlies on social media.